"The Mafia Boss Thought His Ex-Wife Couldn’t Have Children—Then He Saw Her With Twins While Dining Beside His New Wife

The drive back to our Gold Coast penthouse was suffocatingly silent.

Evelyn sat in the passenger seat of the Bentley, staring straight ahead through the windshield, her jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in her neck were strained. I drove with both hands gripping the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

The moment the private elevator doors slid open into our foyer, Evelyn turned on me like a cornered lioness.

"Your sons?!" she shrieked, tossing her designer clutch onto the marble island, where it slid across the surface and crashed onto the floor. "Are you out of your mind, Luca?! You divorced that woman five years ago! She was infertile! You spent three years crying over medical reports that said she couldn't give you a child!"

"The medical reports were wrong," I said coldly, walking toward my study and pouring myself three fingers of neat scotch with a hand that would not stop shaking.

"Or she cheated on you!" Evelyn yelled, following me into the dimly lit room, her eyes flashing with venom. "Did you ever think of that? You leave her, and suddenly she magically pops out two boys who happen to look like you? She was probably sleeping with someone else while you were paying her medical bills!"

"Shut your mouth, Evelyn," I growled, turning around with a look so dark and lethal that even she took a step back.

As a high-ranking figure in the Moretti family operations, I rarely brought the violence of my world home. But tonight, the mob boss inside me was awake, raw, and bleeding.

"Don't you ever accuse her of that," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet rumble. "Nia was faithful to me every single day we were together. I was the one who broke her. I was the one who listened to poison."

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed into sharp, calculating slits. "Poison? What are you talking about?"

I didn't answer her. My mind was racing backward in time, rewinding four years to the months leading up to my divorce.

Back then, my chief security coordinator and long-time family advisor, Marcus Vance, had been the one presenting me with Nia’s medical files. Marcus had been the one who brought in the "specialist" from New York—Dr. Harrison—who had signed off on the final, devastating diagnosis stating that Nia suffered from an irreversible uterine condition that made carrying a pregnancy to term impossible.

Marcus had sat in this very study, pouring me scotch, whispering in my ear: “A boss needs an heir, Luca. The family expects continuity. If she can’t give you a bloodline, she’s a liability to your standing in the Syndicate.”

My blood ran ice cold in my veins.

I put my glass down on the desk, picked up my encrypted phone, and dialed my personal head of security, Matteo.

"Boss?" Matteo answered on the second ring. "Is everything alright? Security flagged your departure from the restaurant."

"Matteo," I said, my voice trembling with controlled fury. "I need you to pull every traffic camera feed along East Huron and Michigan Avenue from thirty minutes ago. I want the license plate, medallion number, and drop-off location of a yellow cab, vehicle number 4108."

"On it right now, Boss," Matteo replied.

"And Matteo?"

"Yes, Luca?"

"I want you to bring me every file, medical record, and financial statement associated with Marcus Vance from four years ago. Search his offshore accounts. Search his private drives. Don't let him know you're looking."

There was a brief pause on the line. "Understood, Luca. Give me two hours."

I hung up the phone and looked up at Evelyn, who was watching me with a mixture of fear and growing resentment.