I never wanted revenge on my ex-husband—until my three sons asked the Mafia boss standing across the gala, “Are you our dad?”

“Get her out of here, Marco,” Gabriel’s voice was venomous as he strode toward the foyer.

I followed him into the open living room.

Serena stood in the entrance, her designer gown slightly disheveled, her mascara smudged at the corners. Flanking her was an older man with slicked-back gray hair and a heavy gold signet ring: Don Vittorio Rossi.

My blood ran cold.

Even when I was married to Gabriel, the Rossi name was spoken in whispers. They ran the docks on the south side. They had fought a bloody turf war with the Cross syndicate eight years ago—a war that only ended when Gabriel wiped out Vittorio’s younger brother in an ambush Vittorio could never legally prove.

“What is the meaning of this, Vittorio?” Gabriel didn't reach for a weapon, but his posture shifted. His weight shifted to the balls of his feet. He was ready to kill.

“Take it easy, Gabriel,” Vittorio said with a raspy laugh, raising two manicured hands. “I’m not here for a war. I’m here because your lovely fiancée called me in tears from the gala parking lot. Said you lost your mind over some former scullery maid and three stray mutts.”

“Watch your mouth,” Gabriel said. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

“Oh, please!” Serena stepped forward, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at me. “Look at her, Gabriel! You were married to her for three years and she was barren! For three years, nothing! Then suddenly, five minutes after you give her a walking paper, she pops out three identical boys? She was sleeping with someone else! She’s trying to pass off another man’s bastards as Cross heirs so she can strip your trust funds!”

*Slap.*

The sound cracked like a gunshot through the marble foyer.

It wasn't Gabriel who had struck her.

It was me.

Serena stumbled back, her hand flying to her bright red cheek, her mouth agape in absolute shock.

“You can insult me,” I whispered, stepping toward her with a rage I had never felt in my entire life. “You can steal my husband. You can parade around Manhattan on his arm. But if you ever call my sons bastards again, Serena, you will not leave this room on your two feet. Do you understand me?”

Vittorio let out a low whistle. “Feisty. You always did have poor taste in compliant women, Gabriel.”

“Marco,” Gabriel commanded, his eyes fixed on Serena with a disgust so absolute it was chilling. “Escort Miss Vale downstairs. Confiscate her penthouse keycard. Pack her belongings from the master suite. If she is seen within five hundred yards of this building again, put her in a cell.”

“Gabriel! No! You can’t do this to me!” Serena shrieked, struggling against Marco’s iron grip. “We are engaged! I am the face of Cross Global Logistics! You need my father’s political connections!”

“Your father’s connections were bought with my money,” Gabriel said coldly. “And as of midnight, the checks have stopped. Get her out.”

Marco dragged Serena toward the private elevator. Her screams faded as the heavy steel doors slid shut.

Now only Vittorio Rossi remained, an amused smirk playing on his leathery lips.

“A domestic tragedy,” Vittorio chuckled. “Touching. But here’s the problem, Gabriel. If those boys are yours, the balance of power shifts. You told the Commission five years ago that you had no heirs. That when your time came, the logistics routes would be divided among the families. If there are Cross sons... well, that changes the treaty.”

“The treaty is whatever I say it is,” Gabriel snarled.

“Is it?” Vittorio’s eyes flicked to the frosted glass doors where my children were sleeping. “Only if they’re yours. Until I see proof, Cross, those kids are a liability. To you. And to the city.”

Vittorio turned and walked out, his two bodyguards falling in behind him.

When the doors clicked shut, the silence returned, heavier and more dangerous than before.

“He will kill them,” I whispered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. The adrenaline drained from my limbs, leaving me trembling. “He will kill my babies to keep your empire divided.”

Gabriel turned to me. The anger on his face had vanished, replaced by an expression of cold, terrifying resolve.

“Over my dead body,” he said.

He pulled a phone from his pocket, hit a speed dial, and held it to his ear.

“Dr. Chen. Bring the rapid-sequence mobile lab to the Tribeca penthouse. Now. I want buccal swabs and blood panels. Results in three hours.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

“A DNA test?” I asked, hurt slicing through my fear. “You still don't believe me?”

“I believe my own eyes, Claire,” Gabriel said softly, walking slowly toward me. “I look at Leo and I see myself at his age. I look at Julian and I see my grandfather. But Vittorio Rossi doesn't operate on gut feelings. He operates on blood and paper. If I am going to wage war to protect those three boys tomorrow morning, I need the paper that makes them bulletproof in the eyes of the Commission.”

He reached out. This time, his fingers actually brushed against my jaw. His touch was burning hot, electric, reviving sensations I had buried under five years of concrete and grief.