The Mafia Boss Froze Seeing His Heavily Pregnant Ex-Wife Working Alone at a Restaurant The private dining room at the Copper Lantern had been built so powerful men could speak without being overheard. Dark walnut walls. Heavy curtains. One locked door.

“Your father is dead,” Del said, struggling to keep her breathing steady as a fresh wave of contractions hit her. “You told me he died in a prison riot.”

“He did,” Sloan said, pacing the room, running a hand through his dark hair. “I saw the body. I buried him.”

Answer One, Open Two.

If the father was dead, who was using his signature object? The train ticket was the exact one his father used the night he fled the country, abandoning a teenage Sloan to face the rival families alone.

Sloan’s phone vibrated violently in his pocket.

He pulled it out. Unknown number.

He put it on speaker.

“Hello, nephew,” a gravelly, chilling voice echoed through the room.

Sloan’s jaw locked. “Uncle Carmine.”

“You always were a smart boy,” Carmine rasped. “Too smart. But not smart enough to realize I’ve been running your empire from the shadows for the last three years.”

Del covered her mouth. Carmine. Sloan’s beloved mentor. The man who had walked Sloan down the aisle at their wedding.

“Where is the boy?” Sloan demanded, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into the ruthless mob boss persona.

“Safe. For now,” Carmine chuckled. “I didn’t want the kid. I wanted the mother. But Bishop told me she was dead. Imagine my surprise when Aris called and said the ghost was back—and carrying the heir to the Marchetti throne.”

“If you touch a single hair on Leo’s head, I will pull your lungs out through your throat,” Sloan promised quietly.

“Tough talk for a man whose mansion is currently surrounded by my men,” Carmine said. “Bishop let them in the back gates five minutes ago. You have thirty seconds to come down to the grand foyer alone, unarmed, and sign over the syndicate. Or I burn the house down with your pregnant wife inside.”

The line went dead.

Sloan looked at Del. He didn’t hesitate. He took his gun, dropped the magazine, ejected the chambered round, and tossed the empty weapon onto the bed.

“What are you doing?!” Del panicked.

“I’m going downstairs.”

“They’ll kill you!”

“I don’t care about the empire, Delphine,” Sloan said, closing the distance and taking her face in his hands. He kissed her forehead, then her lips, hard and desperate. “I care about you. I care about our daughter. I care about Leo. I am going to buy you time.”

He pulled a small, black burner phone from his inside pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“Call Marcus. My second-in-command. Tell him to bring the cavalry to the front gate. Hide in the panic room behind the bookshelf in my study.”

Sloan turned to leave, but stopped at the door. He looked back at her, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I never stopped loving you, Del. Not for a single day.”

He stepped into the hallway and shut the door.

Del stood alone in the quiet room. She looked at the burner phone.

She dialed Marcus’s number.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, a ringing sound echoed from the hallway. Just outside the door.

Del froze.

The door handle slowly turned.

The door swung open.

Marcus, Sloan’s most trusted lieutenant, stood there, holding a ringing phone. In his other hand, he held a dark wooden rosary.

Reversal.