Mr. Mafia, Your Baby Girl is Six Years Older Than Me Chapter 02

Mr. Mafia, Your Baby Girl is Six Years Older Than Me Chapter 02

Evelyn’s POV

Back at the Anderson estate, I stepped out of the shower.

My phone lit up, a text from Olivia.

[Madre Anderson, what do you want for dinner tomorrow? I’ll make it for you.]

[Don’t worry, I won’t mess it up this time. It’s not like you have a baby left to lose, right?]

[No matter how much you tantrum, Don Anderson will always take my side. So pathetic.]

[If I were you, I’d have gotten the hell out of New York by now.]

My fingers froze over the screen. Memories crashed over me like a nightmare.

A month ago, I’d come back to our penthouse in Manhattan from the Hudson Valley. Walked through the door, and there she was—Olivia—sprawled across my favorite Italian leather sofa. Wearing my Vera Wang silk nightgown. My diamond necklace draped around her throat.

I snapped. I lunged at her, grabbed her hair, ready to claw her face off.

Before I could land a hit, James’s hand clamped down on my wrist. Then his palm cracked across my cheek so hard my head whipped to the side.

“Evelyn! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

I hadn’t even touched Olivia. Didn’t matter. The family guards dragged me to the confinement villain Ironspine Isle for three days.

The place had soundproof walls. But every night, I heard Olivia’s moans from the next room.

She made sure of it. Loud. Deliberate. She wanted me to hear every single second.

I pounded on the walls. I screamed until my throat bled. James didn’t flinch. He just changed positions, made her moan louder, higher, so I couldn’t block it out.

That was his punishment.

Three days. I nearly lost my mind.

I was standing at the window, about to jump, when the baby kicked. A tiny flutter in my belly.

That snapped me back.

I still had my baby. I couldn’t give up.

But I didn’t expect what came next.

The day after they released me, Olivia slipped abortion pills into my breakfast.

I hemorrhaged. Blood poured out of me before I even understood what was happening. And just like that—my baby was gone.

I went completely insane. I grabbed the spare gun from James’s study and stormed down to Olivia’s little grocery store in Westbrink.

I trashed the place. Smashed every shelf, every jar. Told every single customer exactly that she was a homeworker.

My eyes were burning as I shoved the gun in her face.

“You! Why did you kill my child?! Why?!”

She just trembled, shaking her head, repeating the same line over and over.

“I didn’t mean to… don’t blame me…”

I never even raised the barrel. Anderson’s men tackled me to the floor before I could.

James showed up. He didn’t look at me. Not once. He cradled Olivia in his arms, murmuring comforts, stroking her hair. Didn’t ask her a single question about what she’d done.

When he finally turned to me, his face was carved from ice. Pure disappointment.

“You hate her that much? You had to destroy her reputation to be satisfied?”

“This time, better one month in the correctional facility. Learn some family discipline.”

In that sunless hole where they kept traitors, he even told his thugs to give me “special attention.”

I got beaten every single day. Bruises layered over bruises, wounds on top of wounds.

And somewhere between those blows, my heart finally stopped beating for him.

I stopped wanting his love. Forever.

The memory faded. Olivia’s taunting text felt hollow now. Pointless.

I tossed the phone aside and didn’t reply.

I woke up the next morning to the cloying smell of nutmeg and onions wafting through the manor.

I walked out to the dining room. Olivia was perched on James’s lap, spooning some Westbrink-style thick soup into his mouth.

Back and forth, sharing bites like lovesick teenagers. Sickening.

I slammed the door behind me. They both flinched.

Olivia scrambled off his lap, feigning terror.

“Madre Anderson! Don and I were just fooling around. Don’t be upset.”

James’s eyes stayed locked on me, bracing—like he expected me to explode and claw Olivia’s face off again.

I let out a cold laugh.

“Don’t stop on my account. Pretend I’m not here.”

I walked past them, poured myself a glass of water, drank it. Then turned to head back to my room.

James’s hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. His eyes searched mine—looking for something. Any crack. Any emotion.

“When did you get back to the manor last night? Why didn’t you text me to say you’d arrived safe?”