The Boy Who Died for Me, The Don Who Broke Me
The day I gave birth, I wasn't handed my crying baby, but a tight swaddle of blood-stained cash. To secure his seat as the new Don, my husband had traded our newborn to Agatha—my own flesh-and-blood aunt, and the young wife of his paralyzed father. Reduced to nothing more than a convenient incubator, I spent the next four years as a prisoner in my own home. Ronald issued a ruthless order to his men: if I ever took a single step toward Agatha’s heavily guarded wing to see my son, I was to be shot on sight. But a mother's desperation knows no bounds. When my boy's fever spiked dangerously high, I blasted through armed guards and walked through a blazing inferno just to save his life. Yet, the most fatal wound didn't come from the flames or the shattered glass. It happened in the ER, when the four-year-old boy I nearly died to save woke up, shoved away my severely burned hands, and screamed for Agatha. He begged me to leave, crying that he just wanted to be a "real family" with his dad and the woman who stole my life. Staring at the twisted family my husband and aunt had built upon my stolen motherhood, a sudden, icy numbness quieted my shattered world. "Call me Mom one last time," I whispered through the ash and tears, "and I promise I'll never bother you again."
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