The Mafia Boss’s Baby Wouldn’t Stop Reaching for the Waitress—Then His Father Asked, “Would You Hold Him?”

The rain hammered against the roof of the van like gravel as we tore through the dark, abandoned streets of the Philadelphia industrial district.

I sat completely rigid on the metal floorboards, my hand sweating around the gold pocket watch in my apron. The tiny vibration pulsed against my palm every few seconds, a steady, desperate heartbeat reminding me that Luca was coming.

But I didn't know if he would be in time.

The van slammed over a set of train tracks, throwing me hard against the steel wall. David didn't flinch. He sat opposite me, meticulously checking the magazine of his handgun.

“You were a good cop once, David,” I said, my voice barely audible over the roaring engine. “How did you become this? Trafficking children?”

David didn't look up from his weapon. “I was never a good cop, Ave. I was just good at pretending. The Falcones pay me five times my salary to look the other way when their ships come in. It’s business.”

“Mia is a little girl!” I spat, revulsion turning my stomach.

“She’s a bargaining chip,” David corrected coldly. “Vincent Falcone took her to keep Luca in line. But Luca is getting too aggressive. It’s time to remove the piece from the board.”

The van ground to a halt, the brakes shrieking in the wet night.

The back doors flew open. Brutal hands grabbed my arms, hauling me out into the freezing rain.

We were at the harbor. Massive, rusting shipping containers were stacked five high, creating a terrifying steel labyrinth beneath the towering yellow cranes. The smell of diesel fuel, salt water, and decaying fish choked the air.

David grabbed me by the hair, dragging me toward a massive warehouse near the water’s edge.

“Walk,” he barked.

We stepped inside the cavernous building. Harsh halogen work lights illuminated a grim scene. A dozen armed Falcone soldiers stood guard around a massive, heavy iron shipping container sitting in the center of the floor.

Painted on the side in peeling white letters were the numbers: 404.

Just like the drawing.

Sitting on a wooden pallet in front of the container was a heavy steel wall safe—David’s safe, ripped entirely out of the drywall of his apartment.

Standing next to it was Vincent Falcone. He was an older man, heavily wrinkled, wearing an expensive camel-hair coat that looked entirely out of place in the grimy warehouse.

“Is this the girl?” Vincent asked, his voice like grinding stones.

“This is her,” David said, shoving me forward. I stumbled, falling to my knees on the oily concrete floor.

Vincent looked down at me with absolute disdain. “Open the safe, sweetheart. We have a boat leaving in twenty minutes, and I need the manifests inside.”

I looked at the heavy steel box. I knew the code. It was my birthday. A sick, twisted romantic gesture David had made years ago.

“Where is Mia?” I demanded, keeping my hands planted firmly on the floor.

Vincent laughed. He gestured to one of his men.

The man walked over to the shipping container and pulled the heavy iron latch. The door creaked open.

Inside, sitting on a filthy mattress surrounded by wooden crates, was a little girl. She was maybe eight years old. Her blonde hair was matted with dirt, and her face was stained with tears. She was clutching a torn, faded blue teddy bear to her chest.

My heart shattered. She looked exactly like the stick figure in the drawing I had carried for a year.

“Mia,” I breathed.

The little girl didn't look up. She just rocked back and forth, entirely broken.

“Open the safe,” Vincent repeated, pulling a silver revolver from his coat and pressing the barrel directly against the back of my head. The metal was freezing. “Or I paint the floor with your brains, and my men cut the box open with a blowtorch.”

I slowly reached up and placed my fingers on the cold metal keypad of the safe.

I looked at Mia. I thought of Leo, sleeping safely in his crib because of Luca. I thought of Luca’s absolute, terrifying promise to protect what was his.

I needed to buy him time.

I typed in three wrong numbers and hit enter.

The safe beeped angrily, flashing a red ERROR light.

David swore. “What are you doing? Open it!”

“I’m trying!” I lied, my voice shaking. “It’s been a year! I’m nervous!”

“You have one more try before the keypad locks out for an hour,” David snarled, pressing his own gun against my temple. “Do it. Now.”

I took a deep breath. My fingers hovered over the keypad.

I typed the first number. 0.

I typed the second. 8.

Suddenly, the warehouse plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

The halogen lights shattered violently, one by one, popping in a rapid cascade of gunfire.

“What the hell is that?!” Vincent screamed in the dark.

A heavy, terrifying engine roared to life just outside the warehouse doors.

Before anyone could move, the massive corrugated metal doors of the warehouse exploded inward. A colossal, armored black SUV tore through the steel like tissue paper, smashing directly into the wooden pallet, sending the safe flying across the concrete floor.

The headlights snapped on, blinding everyone.

Standing up through the open sunroof of the armored vehicle, holding a heavy tactical rifle, was Luca Moretti.