My Don Turned Our Kids into Blood Banks and Organ Donor for His Bastard – It was the third year since I lost my daughter, and I miscarried again. The black SUV had barreled toward me on the rain-slicked street without a single hesitation, its tires grinding over my abdomen . Pain exploded through me, white-hot and merciless. The emergency surgery dragged on for an entire day and night. My screams tore through the sterile operating room while doctors barked orders and issued critical-condition notices more times than I could count. When my husband finally stormed through the double doors, Don Antoine—the undisputed Don of the Vaughan Mafia Family. He crossed the room in three strides, scooping my broken body into his arms.
His dark eyes burned with something that looked like pain. I didn’t cry. I simply stared up at the man who ruled half the city’s underworld and asked, voice raw, “Where is my child?” He pulled me tighter against his chest, his voice low and deceptively gentle. “The child has gone to heaven, Jessica. If you need to grieve, let it out. I’m here.” “I was nine months pregnant,” I rasped, each word slicing my throat. “The baby was already fully formed. Where is the child I delivered? I want to see him!” Don Antoine sighed. “Be good, darling. We won’t look. It would only frighten you.” Something inside my chest snapped clean in two. My vision blurred red. “You took him again, didn’t you?” The accusation ripped out of me. “You gave my child to your precious son for another transplant! You killed my baby—just like you killed Tiana!” Don Antoine’s face hardened into the cold, ruthless mask.
The hospital monitors beeped faster, echoing the sudden thunder of my heart. Three years earlier, our daughter Tiana had vanished without a trace. I had called every contact I possessed—cops on the Vaughan payroll, street informants, even the rival crews who owed me favors from the old days. I plastered missing-person notices across the city and searched every warehouse, dock, and back alley under Vaughan control. Nothing. Not a single lead. That same night, Don Antoine had held me in the dark penthouse, his breath warm against my neck. “It’s my fault,” he had murmured, “The Vaughan family has too many enemies. They took their revenge on Tiana.” He had kissed my tears away and whispered against my skin, “Let’s have another daughter. We’ll pretend she’s Tiana, returned to us.” I had cried until dawn, then forced myself to believe him. But every pregnancy after that ended in the same nightmare. Seven or eight months in, and disaster always struck: a convenient “fall” from a high-rise balcony, a shove from a stranger on a crowded sidewalk, a flowerpot crashing down from above.
Time and again I ended up writhing on an operating table, watching another innocent life bleed away. I told myself it was the price of loving a Don. Until the night after this latest miscarriage, when the impossible happened. I saw Tiana crawl out of the basement. The once-round, beautiful little girl was now nothing but skin and bones. Her small hands were covered in scars, her face deathly pale. A long trail of blood smeared the marble floor behind her as she dragged herself toward me. “Daddy kept taking my blood,” she whispered. “He said only my blood could save Rebecca’s son.” “But Mommy… it hurts so much. It really hurts…” The broken child used the last of her strength to reach my feet. She clutched the hem of my nightgown, enormous eyes filled with a suffering no child should ever know. “Daddy also said… he wants you to give birth to more brothers and sisters so he can take their hearts for Rebecca’s son… Mommy, run… please run…” She coughed up a mouthful of blood, tilted her head, and went still. Trembling, I scooped her into my arms and tried to run, only to be stopped.
Don Antoine crushed the cigarette between his fingers, his gaze settling on me. “Jessica, come here.” “No!” I backed away, clutching our dying daughter. “I have to take Tiana to the hospital! Can’t you see she’s dying?” He stepped closer, voice calm and commanding. “You’re ill, my love. There is no Tiana here.” “She’s right here in my arms! Look at her—” He seemed almost regretful as he turned to the bodyguards standing silently in the shadows. “Donna is having hallucinations again. Take her to the psychiatric hospital for evaluation.” “I won’t let you! I need to get Tiana to a doctor—she can still be saved!” In the next instant, the child in my arms went still. I froze, slowly lowering my gaze to her small, bloodless face. The shock was too much. Darkness swallowed me. When I woke, I raged. I called every contact I had and filed charges against Don Antoine for abusing our daughter . Instead, I was told that Tiana had died three