**My maid’s eight-month-old baby crawled into my office while my enforcer was holding a gun on a traitor, but instead of reacting like the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared, I dropped to my knees and cried. The baby had the same eyes, dark curls, and face as the son I had buried three years earlier.**
**My maid’s eight-month-old baby crawled into my office while my enforcer was holding a gun on a traitor, but instead of reacting like the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared, I dropped to my knees and cried. The baby had the same eyes, dark curls, and face as the son I had buried three years earlier.**
**My maid’s eight-month-old baby crawled into my office while my enforcer was holding a gun on a traitor, but instead of reacting like the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared, I dropped to my knees and cried. The baby had the same eyes, dark curls, and face as the son I had buried three years earlier.**
I was pouring bourbon when my office door slowly opened.
Dominic lowered his gun.
Lorenzo was still on his knees in front of my desk, blood at the corner of his mouth. Seconds earlier, everyone had been waiting for me to decide whether he would leave the room alive.
Then a tiny hand appeared around the door.
An eight-month-old baby crawled inside.
“Boss…” Dominic whispered.
I knew him.
Leo.
My maid Elena’s son.
He crawled across the Persian rug without fear, completely unaware of the kind of men watching him.
Then he looked up at me.
My glass slipped from my hand.
It shattered.
Those eyes.
Those dark curls.
That stubborn little chin.
I had spent three years trying to forget that face.
My son Mateo had died in an accident. They told me his injuries were too severe for me to see him.
So I buried him in a closed casket.
And after that funeral, I became the man everyone feared.
But now Mateo’s face was staring back at me.
Leo smiled.
Then he lifted both arms toward me.
I walked around my desk and dropped to my knees.
“Mateo…”
Nobody moved.
Leo grabbed my finger and laughed.
That tiny sound broke something inside me.
I pulled him against my chest.
And for the first time in three years, I cried.
Then Leo turned his head.
That was when I saw it.
A tiny crescent-shaped birthmark beneath his left ear.
My entire body went cold.
Mateo had the exact same mark.
Same shape.
Same place.
A similar face could be coincidence.
But this?
Suddenly, I remembered things about Elena I’d never questioned.
She had started working for me six months after Mateo’s funeral.
She never spoke about Leo’s father.
She kept no family photographs in her room.
And whenever anyone asked about her past, she changed the subject.
Before I could make sense of it, a scream tore through the hallway.
“LEO!”
Elena rushed into my office.
She saw her baby in my arms and froze.
But she didn’t look relieved.
She looked terrified.
Her eyes moved from my face to Leo’s birthmark.
All the color disappeared from hers.
“Elena,” I said.
She took one step backward.
“Who is Leo’s father?”
Her lips trembled.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then tears filled her eyes.
“Please, Mr. Moretti…”
She looked at Leo.
Then back at me.
“Don’t ask me that.”
