The Mafia Boss’s Twins Suddenly Couldn’t Breathe—Then a Waitress Noticed Something Wrong With Their Bottles

“She stays,” Damien said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate.

Marcus’s jaw twitched, but he masked it instantly with a nod. “Of course. For her own protection. I’ll double the guards on the nursery wing.”

As Marcus walked out, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him, the air in the room felt impossibly thin. I was trapped in a mansion with a man who wanted me dead, and the only person who could protect me didn't know his best friend was the enemy.

“Ellie,” Damien said, turning to me. He was carefully folding Elena’s torn letter, placing it into his breast pocket over his heart. “I need you to look at me.”

I forced my eyes up. I was trembling.

“You’re shaking,” he noted, taking a slow step toward me. He was so large, so imposing, but his movements were deliberately gentle. “You think I’m going to hurt you?”

“I think,” I swallowed hard, “that you are surrounded by people who want to hurt you. And I’m in the crossfire.”

“I will not let anything happen to you,” Damien said, his voice a low vow. “You gave my sons their breath back tonight. In my world, a debt like that is paid in blood. You are under my protection. No one in this house will touch you.”

Except the man guarding the door, I thought wildly.

I had to tell him. But how could I tell a mafia boss that his right-hand man, a man he had likely trusted with his life a hundred times over, was trying to murder his children? He might not believe me. He might think I was paranoid.

“Mr. Moretti,” I started, my voice catching.

“Damien,” he corrected softly.

“Damien... the watch you found in the alley. The one from your father’s grave.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, the silver glinting in the dim light. “What about it?”

“When Marcus turned around... his suit jacket opened,” I whispered, taking a step closer so the nursery monitors wouldn't pick up my voice. “He’s wearing the chain that belongs to this watch. The links match perfectly. The tarnishing pattern is identical.”

Damien went completely still.

He didn't blink. He didn't breathe. For a terrifying ten seconds, he looked like a statue carved from pure violence.

Slowly, Damien looked down at the watch in his hand. He traced the broken clasp where the chain had been violently ripped away.

“Marcus and I grew up together,” Damien said, his voice hollow, devoid of any inflection. “He took a bullet for me in a turf war five years ago. He is the godfather to my sons.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Damien closed his eyes. When he opened them, the grief was gone, replaced by the terrifying, calculating gaze of a syndicate boss.

“If you are right,” Damien said quietly, “then Marcus orchestrated the shooting at the restaurant to silence Rossi. He dropped the watch in the chaos. And if he knows you saw the chain... he is going to try to kill you tonight. And make it look like an accident.”

Panic flared in my chest. “I have to leave.”

“No,” Damien grabbed my shoulders, grounding me. His hands were warm and impossibly strong. “If you run, he’ll have you shot in the driveway. The only way you survive this is if we catch him in the act. We need proof to bring to the Commission, or his loyalists in the family will start a civil war that will burn Chicago to the ground.”

“How do we get proof?” I asked, my voice shaking.

“We give him an opening,” Damien said coldly. “We make him think he has a clear shot at you.”

Before I could object to being used as bait, one of the babies—Luca—let out a sharp, piercing cry.

I spun around. Luca was thrashing in his crib, his tiny face turning a blotchy red. The neurotoxin withdrawal was starting.

I rushed to the crib, scooping him up. His skin was burning hot.

“What’s happening?” Damien asked, terror returning to his eyes.

“His nervous system is rebounding,” I said, stripping the poisoned cashmere blanket away and wrapping him in a clean cotton towel from the bathroom. “His brain is misfiring. I need ice water, clean formula, and a metronome. Now.”

Damien didn't hesitate. He bolted toward the door, throwing it open.

“Marcus!” Damien bellowed down the hall.

Marcus appeared instantly. “Boss?”

“The babies are crashing. Go to the kitchen. Bring up ice, sterile water, and formula. Don't let anyone else touch it. You bring it yourself.”

“On it,” Marcus said, turning on his heel.

Damien closed the door and looked at me. “He’s going to lace the formula. This is his chance to finish the job and blame the withdrawal.”

“And if he does?” I asked, bouncing a screaming Luca against my chest, tapping a steady, calming rhythm against his spine.

“Then I kill him,” Damien said simply.

We waited in agonizing silence. Ten minutes later, a soft knock came at the door.

Damien opened it. Marcus stood there, holding a silver tray with a pitcher of ice water, baby bottles, and a sealed tin of formula.

“Here, Boss,” Marcus said. His eyes flicked to me, holding the crying baby, then back to Damien.

“Put it on the table,” Damien ordered.

Marcus walked in, set the tray down, and took a step back. “Do you want me to call the estate doctor?”

“No,” Damien said. “Ellie has it handled.”

Marcus nodded slowly. “She’s a miracle worker, huh?”

“Something like that,” Damien said.

As Marcus turned to leave, Damien’s hand shot out with blinding speed. He grabbed Marcus by the throat and slammed him against the heavy oak door. The wood groaned under the impact.

Marcus gagged, his hands flying up to claw at Damien’s grip.

“Boss—what—” Marcus choked.

Damien used his free hand to rip Marcus’s suit jacket open.

There, dangling from the inside pocket, was the heavy silver chain.

Damien pulled his father’s pocket watch from his own pocket and held it up. The broken clasp perfectly aligned with the torn link on Marcus’s chest.

“You dug up my father,” Damien whispered, his voice shaking with a rage that seemed to shake the room. “You poisoned my wife. You poisoned my sons.”

“Damien—no—wait—” Marcus gasped, his face turning purple.

“Who else is in on it?” Damien demanded, tightening his grip. “Tell me before I crush your windpipe!”

Marcus’s eyes rolled frantically. “It wasn't... just me. The Commission... they think you’re weak since Elena died. They wanted... a new boss. I was supposed to... make it look natural.”

“Who on the Commission?” Damien roared.

Marcus tried to speak, but suddenly, his body seized violently. His eyes rolled back into his head, white foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

Damien let go, stumbling back in shock.

Marcus collapsed to the floor, thrashing, his fingernails tearing at his own throat.

“Ellie, what’s happening to him?!” Damien yelled.

I stared at Marcus’s convulsing body, then looked at the silver tray he had just brought in.

Next to the baby bottles was a small, crumpled piece of paper. A coat check ticket from a high-end downtown club.

“He didn't lace the babies' formula,” I realized, a sick dread washing over me. “He laced his own hands before he touched the tray.”

Marcus’s body went completely rigid. And then, he stopped moving entirely. Dead from a massive, concentrated dose of the same neurotoxin used on the twins.

He was a loose end, and someone much higher up had just forced him to tie himself off.

Damien stared at his dead best friend.

Then, he reached out and picked up the coat check ticket.