She Threw Up While Signing the Divorce Papers and Told Her Mafia Husband She Was Carsick, but His Next Order Changed Everything

“Mr. and Mrs. Cross, the results are back. Alina, you are six weeks pregnant.”

The words hung in the sterile air like a physical blow. Alina felt the room tilt. Six weeks. That calculation meant it happened during the brief weekend Dorian had returned to their penthouse before disappearing for a month into the shadows of his corporate war.

Dorian’s breath caught. The terrifying, ice-cold mafia kingpin—the man who controlled real estate empires and silenced underworld rivals with a single look—stared at Alina as if the ground beneath him had dissolved.

“A child,” Dorian whispered, stepping forward until he stood right beside the examination table. He reached out with a trembling hand, hovering just inches from Alina’s flat stomach before pulling back as if afraid she would shatter. “You’re carrying my child.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Alina whispered, a tear finally breaking free and tracking down her cheek. “This doesn't change anything. The papers are back at the law office. Unsigned, yes, but the intent hasn't vanished. A baby doesn't fix a marriage built on secrets and isolation.”

Dorian’s expression hardened instantly, the warmth vanishing, replaced by the dangerous, absolute authority of a man accustomed to owning everything he looked at.

“A marriage isn't broken just because one partner fought a war in the dark to keep the other alive,” Dorian said, his voice dropping into a deadly serious register. “And we are not getting a divorce. Not now. Not ever.”

Before Alina could fire back a retort, the heavy security door at the end of the hospital wing slammed open with a deafening crash. Shouts echoed down the corridor, followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of a silenced gunshot.