All Chapters of How to Escape from a Ruthless Mobster: Chapter 81 - Chapter 86

Beatrice’s POV  “Things were weird last time we spoke,” I admitted, watching his face carefully.  “I was an idiot,” Nitta sighed, his shoulders relaxing. Behind me, I heard Fukui greet Ryuu, but I didn’t turn.  “What’s new?” Fukui coughed, and Nitta shot him a glare but didn’t rise to the bait.  “Whatever you have with Ryuu isn’t my business. I know I already apologized, but after our last conversation”—he hesitated, something unspoken passing between us—“I was defensive. I wasn’t sure where we stood. I’m sorry for being short with you. And as for you and Ryuu… I was selfish. It was my pride talking.”  “You are a child,” Fukui cut in with a laugh.  

Beatrice’s POV  Two weeks. That’s how long we’d been back in America.  And yet, as I stared out the window of the black car, I still felt like I was in limbo. My reflection in the glass was pale, tense—just another ghost trapped in this endless cycle of uncertainty. Ryuu sat beside me, silent, his presence looming but unreadable.  We were on our way to Dr. Takagi’s office.  Today was my first ultrasound.  The weight of that reality felt suffocating.  Ryuu had arranged everything, just like he always did. And, to my surprise, he had kept his promise—staying by my side almost every day while I recovered.

Ryuu’s POV I never planned on going back to the bedroom that night. The only thing running through my mind was that Beatrice was safer without me. The past few weeks had dragged me into a pit I couldn’t climb out of. The anonymous threat against her, the pregnancy—everything weighed on me like lead, pressing down harder with every passing day. And today, after the appointment with Dr. Takagi, the reality finally hit me like a punch to the gut. That ultrasound image in my hands… I was going to be a father. The thought terrified me. How the hell was I—someone built from violence, shaped by control—supposed to be anything other than a disaster for this child? My father had failed me at every turn. What made me think I’d be any different? I shouldn’t have poured that first glass of whiskey in the dark silence of my office. But I didn’t stop at one. Or two. Or three. Or four. Now, all that was left was the bitter aftertaste and the emptiness growing with every sip