My mafia boss husband abandoned me in the delivery room because his mistress was giving birth to his son one floor above me

Vincent froze. The barrel of his gun was inches from Sophia’s forehead.

He turned his head slowly, his eyes wild and bloodshot, looking at me through the iron bars of the gate.

“Claire,” he rasped. “Go back upstairs. You shouldn’t see this.”

“Put the gun down, Vincent,” I said, walking through the open gate. The scent of fear and damp stone was suffocating, but I didn't stop until I stood between him and Sophia. “You pull that trigger, and you become the monster she told the world you were. You pull that trigger, and you tell Emily that her father is nothing more than a murderer who solves his regrets with lead.”

Vincent’s hand shook—a violent, unnatural tremor from a man who had never missed a target in his life. “She ruined us, Claire! She took everything! She made me walk away from my own blood!”

“You walked away because you chose to walk away!” I shouted, stepping directly into his space, my chest nearly touching the muzzle of his gun. “She laid the trap, Vincent, but you were the one who walked into it! You cared more about an heir with a cock than you did about the woman who loved you or the baby she was carrying! Own your sin, Vincent! Don't pass it off onto her!”

The words hit him like a physical blow. The gun lowered slowly, his arm dropping to his side as if the weapon weighed a thousand pounds.

Behind us, Sophia let out a shuddering, pathetic sob of relief.

Suddenly, the house shuddered.

A deafening explosion ripped through the upper levels of the estate. The concrete ceiling rained dust and powdered mortar down upon our heads. The lights flickered once, twice, and died, plunging the basement into red emergency backup lighting.

*BOOM!*

Automatic gunfire erupted from the foyer above—harsh, staccato bursts followed by the shattering of grand chandeliers and the screams of dying men.

“They’re inside!” Dante’s voice came crackling through Vincent’s radio earpiece, strained and breathless. *“Castiglione brought thirty men! They breached the perimeter with an armored ram at the east gate! Boss, they’re heading for the upper floors!”*

My heart plummeted into my stomach.

*Emily.*

“Emily!” I screamed, turning to sprint toward the stairs.

Vincent moved faster than I thought humanly possible. He grabbed my waist, pulling me behind the cover of the concrete archway just as a volley of rounds shredded the wooden stairs leading down to the cellar.

“Dante!” Vincent roared into his lapel mic. “Where is the girl?”

*“Madison got her into the panic room behind the master closet!”* Dante fired three rounds in rapid succession over the radio. *“The door is sealed, but Castiglione’s men are setting thermal breaching charges! You have two minutes, Vincent!”*

Vincent shoved two fresh magazines into his vest, racking the slide of his pistol with cold, brutal efficiency.

“Claire,” he said, grabbing both of my shoulders. His eyes were clear now, the madness replaced by a focused, terrifying calm. “Stay behind me. Don't look back. Don't stop running until you’re in that panic room.”

“Vincent—”

“I let you down once,” he whispered, his forehead pressing against mine for a fleeting, desperate second. “I will burn this entire city to ash before I let them touch our daughter.”

He kicked open the cellar door and charged up into the war zone.

The grand hallway of the Moretti estate was an abattoir. Velvet drapes were ablaze, marble statues were pulverized into gravel, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of cordite and burning drywall.

Two gunmen in tactical gear rounded the landing, their rifles raised.

Vincent fired four shots without breaking stride. Both men collapsed instantly, their weapons clattering down the polished stairs.

We sprinted up the eastern staircase, stepping over shattered glass and spent shell casings. From the end of the third-floor corridor, a voice echoed through the smoke—rough, gravelly, and mocking.

“Come out, little girl!” Sal Castiglione laughed, his heavy frame silhouetted against the firelight outside the master suite. “Uncle Sal just wants to say hello to the Moretti princess!”

Beside Sal stood three heavily armed mercenaries, attaching a magnetic breaching ring to the reinforced steel door of the master closet.

Vincent didn’t shout a warning. He lunged around the corner, opening fire.

One mercenary dropped. The second took a round to the shoulder and tumbled backward. But Sal was faster than his bulk suggested; he raised a short-barreled shotgun, leveling it directly at the corner—straight at where I was running behind Vincent.

“Say goodnight, Claire!” Sal roared, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Time slowed to a crawling nightmare.

Vincent didn’t raise his gun. He threw his entire body across the corridor, slamming me hard into the alcove wall, wrapping his arms around my head and torso, completely shielding me with his back.

*BLAM!*

The concussive blast blew out the nearby windows.

A heavy, wet impact shuddered through Vincent’s frame. He let out a strangled, agonizing gasp, his grip on my shoulders convulsing violently.

“Vincent!” I screamed.

He didn't fall. With sheer, impossible willpower, Vincent pushed off the wall, spun around with blood pouring down his left flank, and emptied the rest of his magazine into Sal Castiglione’s chest.

Sal collapsed backward, hitting the floor with a hollow thud, his eyes staring lifelessly at the burning ceiling.

The hallway fell instantly silent, save for the crackling of flames and the distant wail of incoming sirens.

Vincent dropped to one knee. The dark wool of his coat was rapidly turning black and wet with blood. He pressed a hand against his side, his breath coming in shallow, bubbling gasps.

“The door…” he whispered, his vision swimming as he pointed a trembling finger at the closet. “Get… get Emily…”