Three screaming babies suddenly stopped crying the instant they saw me. They reached for me, called me “Mama” in front of the most feared mafia boss in the state, and turned an entire diner silent. My manager mocked me for the babies I was told had died, everyone expected me to disappear for crossing a dangerous man, but no one knew the truth—the triplets staring at me had the same hazel eyes I remembered seeing in the mirror during my pregnancy.

The Marchetti estate looked less like a home and more like a modern fortress. High stone walls topped with security sensors and wrought-iron spikes surrounded a sprawling limestone manor that sat back from the East River, shrouded in weeping willows and manicured hedges.

As the SUV glided through the massive security gates, several guards in tactical gear nodded sharply toward the vehicle before stepping back into the shadows.

When the car stopped under the grand portico, Vance quickly opened the doors.

Damian carefully scooped up the sleeping boys, cradling both of them effortlessly against his broad chest, while the little girl clung to my neck like a tiny barnacle, her little fingers tangling in my hair.

"Mrs. Gable!" Damian called out as we stepped into the soaring, marble-floored foyer.

An elderly woman with sharp silver hair, wearing a crisp black housekeeper’s dress, hurried out from the west wing. Her eyes widened in astonishment as she took in the sight of Damian Marchetti—the most feared man in New York—carrying two sleeping toddlers, followed by a pale, soaking-wet woman holding a baby.

"Mr. Marchetti! Good heavens, what—"

"Prepare the nursery on the third floor," Damian interrupted, his tone commanding no argument. "And bring warm milk, dry clothes, and anything else an infant requires. Immediately."

"Right away, sir," Mrs. Gable replied, her professional composure kicking in instantly, though her eyes darted toward me with profound curiosity. She stepped forward, gently taking the little girl from my arms. "Come with me, my dear. Let's get you out of those wet clothes."

I hesitated, looking back at Damian.

"Go with Mrs. Gable," Damian instructed softly, his dark eyes meeting mine. "I’ll be upstairs in ten minutes."

The third-floor nursery was larger than my entire apartment. It was a sunlit haven with vaulted ceilings, plush white carpets, a massive custom crib, and shelves lined with hundreds of high-end toys and books. But despite the luxury, it had always felt empty—a monument to a ghost children.

Now, as Mrs. Gable helped me strip off my damp diner uniform and wrapped me in a soft, oversized cashmere bathrobe, the room filled with the warm, chaotic energy of life.

The two boys woke up as soon as Mrs. Gable laid them in the bassinet, letting out soft, groggy whimpers before their hazel eyes locked onto me as I stepped out of the adjoining bathroom.

"Mama," one of them murmured, holding up his chubby arms.

My heart melted completely. I rushed over, scooping him up against my chest, burying my face in his warm, sweet-smelling neck as fresh tears spilled over my cheeks.

The door opened behind me, and Damian walked in. He had changed into a dark gray cashmere sweater and slacks, looking less like a mafia boss and more like an exhausted father.

He stopped a few feet away, watching me hold his son.

"They like you," Damian observed quietly, a faint, rare hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

"They're our children, Damian," I whispered, looking up at him with fierce, protective clarity. "Whoever took them... whoever lied to us... they're going to pay for every single day we lost."