It was 1:00 AM. The entire mansion was silent, save for the rhythmic thud of the guards' boots patrolling the corridors. Though his father had released him from the cellar, Victor's pride lay in ruins. Haunted by shame and guilt, he walked straight toward his mother's quarters.
Victor's mother was reclining against the headboard of her massive bed. The room was bathed in soft, warm light. She wore her reading glasses, an old leather-bound book in her hands. She read calmly, as if the storm that had ravaged the house hours ago had never touched her.
A faint sound came from the door. Victor entered. His regal, intimidating persona was gone; his sleeves were rolled up haphazardly, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were bloodshot. He walked slowly and sank onto the floor at his mother's feet.
His mother didn't look up from her book. A heavy silence filled the room. Suddenly, Victor's shoulders began to heave. The man who never hesitated to shed blood in front of thousands collapsed against his mother's knees and sobbed uncontrollably.
He whispered in a broken voice:
"Mother... please forgive me. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. This obsession with Alia has driven me mad. I have insulted all of you... Mother, I can't control myself."
Slowly, his mother closed the book and set it aside. She placed her long, pale hand upon Victor's shock of white hair. Her touch held no anger, only a deep sense of maternal grace mixed with iron-clad sternness. She spoke in a tranquil voice:
"Crying doesn't fix everything, Victor. Today, you didn't just insult me; you diminished your own existence. The woman you claim to love you humiliated her in front of everyone. Is love about binding someone in chains, or is it about protecting them with trust?"
Victor gripped his mother's hand tightly, his tears soaking the fabric of her saree. He choked out, "I don't want to lose her, Mother. She is the only light in my dark life."
She tilted his chin up, forcing him to look her in the eye.
"Then become my son before you try to be a Mafia Lord. Go. Seek Alia's forgiveness. But remember this: if tonight's tears turn back into tomorrow morning's cruelty, your own blood will become your greatest enemy."Victor rushed toward the bathroom door. There, he saw Alia on her knees, her hands white-knuckled as she gripped the side of the toilet. She was vomiting uncontrollably, her body racking with tremors. The trauma of the day, the screaming, the abduction, and Victor's demonic behavior had finally broken her physical defenses.
At the sound of his footsteps, Alia looked up for a fleeting second. Her eyes were bloodshot and glazed with exhaustion. She didn't even have the strength to look at him with hatred anymore; there was only a hollow emptiness. She slumped back over, gagging again.
Victor froze. The sight of her—weak, broken, and physically ill because of him—hit him harder than any bullet ever could. This was the woman he claimed to cherish, yet he was the poison making her sick. He knelt on the cold tiles behind her, reaching out with trembling hands to pull her matted hair away from her face.
Alia didn't push him away. She simply couldn't. Victor whispered in a cracked, unrecognizable voice:
"Alia... please, stop. I'm... I'm so sorry. I've acted like a monster. Please, just let me help you."
Alia finished retching and leaned her head against the cool porcelain, gasping for air. Her lips were pale and trembling. She spoke in a voice that was barely a ghost of itself:
"Your 'sorry' sounds even more nauseating than my own sickness, Victor. You can chain me, you can hit me, but my body and soul can no longer stomach your toxic love. Look at me... I am dying from the inside out."
The hand that had slapped his sisters earlier now shook as Victor turned on the tap. He soaked a towel in cold water and began to wash her face with a tenderness that bordered on desperation. He lifted her limp, fragile body into his arms carrying her as if she were made of glass and walked toward the bed.
As he laid her down, a single tear from Victor's eye fell onto Alia's forehead. She didn't notice; she had already closed her eyes, drifting into a state of semi-consciousness, her body finally shutting down from the pain.Panic surged through Victor as he watched Alia's limp form on the bed. The cold, calculated Mafia Lord was gone, replaced by a man terrified of the silence growing between them. His hands, usually steady enough to handle a weapon without a tremor, shook violently as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
The Midnight Call
He didn't care that it was past 1:00 AM. He didn't care who he woke up. He hit the speed dial for his private family physician, Dr. Mikhail, the only man trusted to handle the Petrovs' darkest secrets.
The phone rang twice before a groggy voice answered. Victor didn't give him a chance to speak. He roared into the receiver, his voice cracking with desperation:
"Mikhail! Get to my wing. NOW! If you aren't here in five minutes, I will burn down your clinic with you inside! Alia... she's collapsing. She's losing everything. MOVE!"
He slammed the phone down on the nightstand. He didn't stop there. He made another quick call to the head of his kitchen staff, ordering them to bring up electrolyte water and light broth immediately, his tone so lethal that the servant on the other end dropped a plate in fear.
Victor then slumped back onto the edge of the bed. He looked at the phone, then at Alia's pale face. The realization hit him—he could control an entire city, he could command an army of men, but he couldn't force Alia's heart to keep beating if she decided she had had enough of him.
He picked up her cold hand and pressed it to his forehead, whispering to the empty room:
"Don't you dare leave me, Alia. I'll kill everyone in this city before I let the shadows take you." Within five minutes, Dr. Mikhail arrived at Victor's wing, clutching his medical bag. His breath was shallow, fueled by the sheer terror of Victor's earlier threat. Inside the room, Victor was pacing like a caged beast, his eyes bloodshot and his hands trembling.Dr. Mikhail moved quickly, checking Alia's pulse, her pupils, and drawing a small vial of blood for a rapid testing kit. Victor stood over him, looming like a dark cloud. The "wicked smirk" was gone, replaced by the raw, jagged edges of a man on the verge of a breakdown.
After ten agonizing minutes, the doctor stood up, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. Before he could speak, Victor grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall.
"Speak, Mikhail! Why is she vomiting? Why is she fading away? Tell me she's going to be fine or you won't leave this room alive!"
Dr. Mikhail gasped for air, his voice shaking:
"Lord Victor... please. Alia isn't just suffering from exhaustion. Her body is weak from trauma, yes, but the vomiting... there is a specific reason."
Victor's heart hammered against his ribs. The doctor lowered his voice to a whisper:
"Alia is pregnant, Victor. She is carrying your child the next Petrov heir."
Victor's grip loosened. His phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the floor. For a moment, the world went silent. The woman he had been breaking, the woman he had treated like "property," was carrying his own blood. But the doctor wasn't finished.
"But Victor... there is something else. Her blood shows traces of a slow-acting poison. Someone has been slipping microscopic doses of toxins into her food for weeks. It's not enough to kill her yet, but it's enough to make her sick and it will surely kill the child."
Victor's eyes turned a lethal, demonic shade of crimson. The shock of the pregnancy was instantly overtaken by a murderous rage. Inside his own fortress, under his own watch, someone was murdering his unborn child and his woman from within.