“The Mafia Boss’s Baby Reached for My Necklace—Then His Bodyguard Whispered, ‘Boss, Look at the Pendant’”

The deafening crack of gunfire echoed off the brick walls, shattering the restaurant’s back windows and sending a shower of glass raining down on us.

Dante’s heavy body covered mine entirely, his hand pressing my head onto the wet asphalt. I squeezed my eyes shut, screaming as the bullets tore through the metal of my Honda Civic, completely destroying the driver’s side door.

As quickly as it started, the SUV’s tires screeched, and the vehicle sped away into the Chicago night.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

“Boss! Leo is safe!” the scarred bodyguard yelled from the cover of the concrete loading dock. He was curled over the baby, shielding him completely. Little Leo was wailing, a high-pitched cry of sheer terror.

Dante rolled off me, grabbing my shoulders and pulling me to my feet. His eyes were wide, scanning my body for blood. “Are you hit? Alina, look at me. Are you hit?”

“N-no,” I sobbed, my knees buckling.

“We have to move. Now,” Dante commanded. He wrapped his arm around my waist, practically carrying me toward a sleek, armored Mercedes that had just aggressively pulled into the opposite end of the alley.

Ten minutes later, we were speeding through the rain-soaked streets of Chicago. I sat in the spacious backseat, trembling violently inside Dante’s velvet-lined coat.

Dante sat beside me, gently rocking a crying Leo against his broad chest. Despite his terrifying reputation, the gentle, rhythmic way he bounced the baby was profoundly soothing. Yet, Leo wouldn't stop crying, his tiny hands grabbing at Dante’s lapels in distress.

“He hates loud noises,” Dante murmured, looking exhausted.

Instinctively, I reached out. I didn't know why, but I couldn't bear the child’s distress. “Let me.”

Dante hesitated for a fraction of a second before gently transferring the baby into my arms.

The moment Leo felt the silver phoenix pendant against his cheek, his crying hitched into a quiet sniffle. He gripped the metal tightly, buried his face in my neck, and let out a deep, shuddering sigh. Within seconds, his breathing evened out. He was asleep.

Dante watched us, his gray eyes—the exact same color as his son’s—softening with an emotion I couldn't identify.

“Who were those men?” I whispered, terrified to wake the baby.

“Men who work for my uncle, Silas Moretti,” Dante answered, his jaw clenching. “My uncle took over the Chicago syndicate when my father died. I spent the last five years taking it back, trying to legitimize our businesses. Silas wants his throne back. But he needs the key to the family’s offshore accounts to fund his war.”

I frowned, my heart sinking. “And you think my mother stole this key?”

Dante sighed. He reached into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket and pulled out a small, worn leather wallet. From it, he extracted a folded, slightly water-damaged photograph and handed it to me.

I took it carefully, trying not to disturb Leo.

It was a Polaroid from the late nineties. In it stood my mother, looking vibrant and beautiful, wearing a red silk dress. Standing next to her, with his arm wrapped fiercely and possessively around her waist, was an older, harder version of Dante. The man had the exact same dragon tattoo on his hand.

“That’s my father, Lorenzo,” Dante said quietly. “He wasn't hunting your mother, Alina. He loved her. She was his accountant, his confidante. And the night he was murdered, she vanished into thin air with his most prized possession.”

I stared at the photo. Answer one: My mother wasn't hiding from Dante’s father; she was involved with him.

But my mind raced, finding the flaw in his story. “If she loved him, why did she run? Why did she hide me for twenty-five years, living in poverty, terrified of her own shadow?”

Dante leaned closer, his eyes dropping to the silver pendant Leo was clutching.

“Because my father didn't give her that necklace to steal the money,” Dante whispered. “He gave it to her because the necklace proves who the true heir to the Moretti empire is. Your mother wasn’t just his accountant, Alina.”

I stared at him, the air leaving my lungs.

Dante reached out, his finger gently touching the silver phoenix. “Turn it over.”

With trembling fingers, I gently pried the pendant from Leo’s sleeping grip and flipped it. There, engraved in the tarnished silver, were three letters.

A.R.M.