Page 65 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

MAFIA BOSS’S CHRISTMAS CAPTIVE

Millie Adams

CHAPTER ONE

Lindsay

I’M EXHAUSTED. But then, that’s nothing new.

A side effect of the great and glorious world of pregnancy, which I didn’t expect to become acquainted with at twenty-one, but decisions were made.

I trudge down the dark Roman street, my joints aching, my whole body burdened with the weight of my exhaustion. Tending bar for rowdy students on holiday is becoming more and more irritating, and ever since my roommate vanished—ghosted me without an explanation after roping me into this in the first place—I’m extra concerned.

There’s supposed to be money at the end of this pregnancy. Of course, now it’s starting to feel more real, and my agreement in the first place feels shortsighted.

I needed to get away from my family, and going to Rome for school—when the opportunity came up—had seemed like a wonderful idea.

But the first apartment situation I got myself into was a scam, and I lost all of my savings on it. Then I got sick, and my GPA dropped, and I lost some of the stipend that was being provided by my program. It’s amazing that an extended bout of the flu that turns into pneumonia can have such an intense effect, but it did for me.

Then I met Vittoria, who was new to the city, and attending school for the first time. A year younger than me, but fun, vivacious and quickly becoming a dear friend, as well as a roommate. But there were things about Vittoria that didn’t add up from the beginning. Her stories about her family shifted often, and I could see that her relationship with her father was complicated. Controlling, and powerful, was the impression that I got. He also helped us get into the apartment that I’m in now, which is in a much better part of the city than the one I was in before. He also paid for quite a few things when we were running low, and that was when the surrogacy deal was introduced.

Apparently, Vittoria has an older brother.

A married older brother whose wife was having trouble conceiving, and they wanted a surrogate. There was a lot of money on offer. Some at the beginning and during the pregnancy, and most at the end. It was like someone had waved a wand and potentially solved all of my problems.

I’ve been through enough in my life that nine months of discomfort didn’t seem like that big of a deal. Yes, I know the inherent risks in pregnancy, but I’m a risk-taker, because I’ve had to be. Because my parents certainly never gave me anything, and it was a risk to move away from my small town and go to Rome in the first place. I risk my safety every day, tending bar, walking through the streets, being a woman alone in the world.

As for the emotional ramifications? I just choose not to dwell on them. I know I’m not keeping the baby. It isn’t mine. No matter what biology says, it isn’t mine.

So, I agreed to the pregnancy. All was going well until it came up right before the procedure was done that they decided his wife’s eggs weren’t viable.

They asked if they could use mine. If it could be switched to basic artificial insemination, which would be a much more straightforward process.

At that point, I was already in too deep. I’d already planned my life out with that money that I was going to get. The idea that I was going to be able to start my career as a fashion designer with all that money in my bank account… Life-changing.

It’s a competitive industry. And I know that I’m in the right place. My plan is to move to Milan, to do internships, and to be able to live while I do them, to throw myself into those entirely, because I don’t have to worry about things like putting a roof over my head.

It’s a gift, in a world where sudden gifts rarely occur.

So I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even really think. I agreed to the artificial insemination, right there in the office, and it was done.

I’ve never met the father of the baby. Or the mother. Vittoria said that they wanted to keep it more anonymous, because of how difficult it was for her brother’s wife to accept that she wasn’t the one carrying the baby.

I don’t question the way that women feel about those things. It’s intensely personal. I myself have never really wanted children, mostly because with a family as dysfunctional as mine I can’t imagine raising any. I’ve been working my butt off for years, trying to get where I want to go. Trying to wed practicality to what many people feel is an impractical goal.

I have to believe in my own talent, because nobody else does.

And, given that, I’ve had to become my own fiercest advocate.

But now I’m pregnant. And the baby is mine. I try to shove that thought aside as I push the door to my apartment open. The room is dark, but something feels wrong. It takes me a moment to realize what it is. There’s someone else in here.

“Vittoria?”

I hear a shift. And then the light goes on. “No.”

There’s a man sitting there. Dressed all in black from head to toe. He’s tall; I can tell that even as he’s sitting there. His dark hair slicked back, his face angular, devastating. There are tattoos on his hands, and I can see more going up his neck.

Danger.