The most feared mafia boss in Chicago came home three hours early and found his housekeeper secretly feeding four identical little boys at the dining table no one had touched since his wife died. He was about to demand an explanation when one boy pointed at him and asked, “Elena, is that the man from the picture?” The spoon fell from her hand. My name is Alejandro Moretti. For twenty years, men across Chicago had learned

Seeing my son—my four-year-old boy—with a gun pressed to his temple erased every ounce of humanity I had left.

I slowly lowered my Glock to the concrete floor and kicked it away.

"Let him go, Dante. You want the territory? It’s yours. You want the bank accounts? Take them."

Dante laughed, pulling Mateo closer against his chest. The boy was crying silently, tears streaming down his pale cheeks.

"I don't just want the empire, Alejandro. I want the legitimacy. And the only way the Five Families will accept me as the new head of the Moretti syndicate is if I raise the Moretti heir."

"You're insane," Sofia spat, kneeling on the ground, clutching the other three boys—Leo, Luca, and Enzo, as I would later learn their names. "You can't just take a child and pretend he’s yours."

"Watch me," Dante smirked.

He motioned to his men. Two of them stepped forward and dragged Sofia and Elena away from the boys.

"Leave them!" I roared, surging forward.

A rifle butt slammed into my jaw. I hit the floor hard, tasting copper.

"We only need one heir," Dante said coldly, looking at the three remaining boys huddled by the wall. "Kill the spares. And kill the women."

My vision blurred, but I saw Dante’s men raise their weapons.

This was it. The end of my family.

Suddenly, a weak, coughing voice broke through the tension.

"Dante..."

It was Marcus.

He was lying in a pool of his own blood, struggling to breathe.

"Dante... look in my left pocket."

Dante paused. He nodded to one of his men. The man walked over, kicked Marcus onto his back, and reached into his jacket pocket.

He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Open it," Marcus wheezed.

The man unfolded it and handed it to Dante.

It was a child’s drawing. Done in crude, colorful crayons.

It showed a tall man holding hands with a little boy.

Dante frowned. "What is this trash?"

"Look at the back," Marcus coughed, blood bubbling on his lips.

Dante turned the paper over. His face instantly drained of color.

Whatever was written on the back of that drawing made the gun in Dante’s hand shake.

Answer one: Marcus had leverage over Dante.

But Open Two: What could possibly terrify my ruthless Underboss?

"Where did you get this?" Dante demanded, his voice cracking.

"I've kept it for five years," Marcus smiled, a bloody, gruesome grin. "I sent a copy to the Commission in New York this morning. If I die... or if Alejandro dies... they open the envelope."

Dante stared at the paper. Then, slowly, he lowered the gun from Mateo’s head.

He shoved the boy away. Mateo ran straight into my arms. I crushed him against my chest, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his skin.

"Fall back!" Dante shouted to his men.

"Boss, we have them right here—" one man protested.

"I said fall back!" Dante screamed, his eyes wild with sudden terror.

They scrambled into the battered SUV and threw it into reverse, tires spinning on the bloody concrete before screeching out into the Chicago night.

The garage fell silent again, save for the sound of the children crying.

I carried Mateo over to Sofia, who was weeping uncontrollably, holding all four boys together in a tangled heap of limbs and tears.

I turned to Marcus.

I knelt beside the man who had lied to my wife, ruined my life, and just saved my family.

"Marcus," I said, putting pressure on his chest wound. "Hold on. I'm calling a doctor."

Marcus weakly grabbed my wrist. His grip was fading fast.

"Don't... don't call anyone."

He shoved the crumpled child's drawing into my hand.

I turned it over.

On the back, in Dante’s unmistakable handwriting, was a list of bank account numbers. And a name.

Massimo Moretti.

My uncle. The Don of the New York Commission.

"Dante didn't steal your money, Alejandro," Marcus whispered, his eyes losing focus. "Massimo did. Dante was just the bagman."

"Massimo?" I breathed. "My uncle ordered this?"

"He wanted you ruined," Marcus gasped. "But when he found out Sofia was pregnant... he wanted the babies. To mold them. To control the next generation."

"And you?" I asked, the anger fighting with the grief. "Why did you lie to Sofia? Why did you hit her?"

Marcus looked at Sofia, a tear sliding down his weathered face.

"Because... if I didn't make her hate you... she never would have run. And if she hadn't run... Massimo would have killed her the next morning."

His eyes rolled back. His chest stopped moving.

Marcus was gone.

He had played the villain for five years, just to keep my wife alive.

I stood up, holding the drawing.

"Alejandro?" Sofia asked softly, holding the boys behind her. "What do we do now?"