My billionaire Mafia Boss husband drove away to comfort his first love

Alexander was sitting in the guardhouse at the base of the Highland Farm lane when the storm reached its peak.

He had been there for three days.

He hadn't approached the cottage. He hadn't sent flowers, messages, or emissaries. He had simply rented a heavy four-wheel-drive pickup truck, driven up from the city, and parked in the abandoned tractor shed near the state road where the driveway met the highway.

Dominic had called him insane. Silvio had called him pathetic.

Alexander didn't care.

He knew the cottage was old. He knew the winter storms in Berkshire County could take down power grids for days at a time. He knew that Victoria was stubborn enough to freeze by an open hearth before she would pick up a phone to ask the Moretti family for assistance.

So he sat in the dark cab of the truck, wrapped in a heavy shearling coat, keeping watch over the distant, faint plume of grey smoke that rose from the stone chimney two miles up the valley.

At twelve-fifteen, the smoke plume stopped rising in its normal, steady column.

Alexander leaned forward, wiping the frost from the windshield.

Through the heavy sheets of falling snow, he saw a light flicking erratically against the second-floor windowpane of the cottage—not the steady glow of a kerosene lamp, but the sharp, rhythmic pulse of a hand-held flashlight clicking on and off.

Three short flashes. Three long flashes. Three short flashes.

SOS.

Alexander didn't hesitate. He threw the truck into gear, slammed his foot onto the accelerator, and hit the snowdrift blocking the entrance to the lane.

The four-ton truck roared, its studded tires chewing through the two-foot crust of ice, sending sprays of white powder high into the headlights. The vehicle lurched, skidded against an unseen stone wall, then righted itself as the heavy diesel engine tore through the drift.

The two-mile climb took twelve agonizing minutes. Twice, the truck slid toward the drainage ditch, its wheels spinning against the frozen shale, but Alexander fought the wheel with the desperate, ferocious focus of a man steering a burning vessel through a harbor gate.

He breached the final turn into the farmyard, the front bumper burying itself in a four-foot drift beside the porch steps.

Alexander leaped from the cab, leaving the engine running and the door open to the wind. He scrambled up the icy stone steps and threw his weight against the heavy green door.

It was unlocked.

"Victoria!" he roared, lunging into the pitch-black hallway.

The house was freezing. The woodstove had died down to grey embers.

He followed the faint sound of ragged, shallow breathing into the master bedroom.

Victoria was lying on the braided rug beside the bed, curled on her side, her coat pulled over her shoulders, her face white as chalk, her lips tinged with a faint, terrifying shade of blue.

"Victoria," Alexander choked out, dropping to his knees on the rug, his large, calloused hands instantly finding her trembling shoulders. "What is it? Where does it hurt?"

She opened her eyes slowly. When she saw his face through the gloom, she didn't scream, and she didn't push him away. She was too weak, too exhausted, her fingers clutching his wool coat sleeve with an instinctual, desperate grip.

"Alexander..." she whispered, her voice barely carrying above the howl of the wind outside. "The baby... you have to save the baby..."

Alexander froze.

The universe seemed to stop on its axis. The storm, the house, the family war, the shipping docks—everything collapsed into the single, terrifying word she had just spoken.

The baby.

He looked down at her hands, which were pressed flat against her abdomen.

In a flash of memory, he saw the sealed manila envelope sticking out of her handbag in the driveway three weeks ago. He saw the quiet, protective way she had held herself on the porch. He saw the truth that had been hidden from him while he had been pursuing his own selfish, petty disputes.

He didn't waste five seconds on shock. He didn't ask questions.

He stripped off his heavy shearling coat, wrapped it tightly around her trembling body, and gathered her into his arms. She was light—dangerously light—her head falling against his chest as another wave of agony forced a muffled cry from her throat.

"I’ve got you," he said, his voice dropping into that absolute, unshakable calm that had once led three crews through a terminal explosion. "Listen to my voice, Victoria. I have you. You are not going to lose this child."

He carried her through the dark hall, down the stone porch steps, and kicked the truck door wide with his boot. He placed her across the passenger bench, reclined the seat, and tucked the sheepskin lining around her neck.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the four-wheel drive, and pulled the satellite emergency phone from his emergency kit on the dashboard.

He hit the direct emergency frequency for the state police barracks in Lee.

"This is Alexander Moretti," he barked into the radio as the truck reversed into the gale. "I have a critical obstetric emergency on Highland Farm Road. I am descending toward State Route 7 in a heavy transport vehicle. I need a snowplow escort and an advanced life support ambulance meeting me at the intersection in ten minutes, or I will run every roadblock between here and the medical center."

The dispatcher began to recite standard jurisdiction protocol, but Alexander cut through the static with a voice of pure, unadulterated thunder:

"Check my name with your troop commander, Sergeant! Route 7! Ten minutes! If that road isn't cleared, your commissioner will answer to me by morning!"

He threw the phone onto the seat, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and plunged the truck down the mountain into the teeth of the blizzard.

Beside him, Victoria’s hand reached out across the console.