My mother imprisoned my young pregnant wife inside a hidden room beneath our mafia estate, convinced her I had abandoned her, and left her wedding ring inside our baby's empty crib so I would believe she had run away. But the moment I found the desperate message she carved into the wall, I realized my wife had never escaped—and someone inside my own family wanted her to disappear forever.

The steel door swung open, screeching violently on un-oiled hinges.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the dim amber light of the subterranean hallway, was my mother, Elena Rossi. She wore her pristine white Chanel suit without a single speck of dust, her silver hair styled in a flawless chignon, and a diamond brooch pinned to her lapel catching the harsh light.

Behind her stood four of our most elite personal guards, men I had trusted with my life on a hundred battlefields, holding submachine guns pointed squarely at the center of the room.

And standing slightly behind them, wringing his wrinkled hands with a look of profound, agonizing guilt, was Thomas, our longtime butler.

“Mother,” I said, my voice dangerously low, my grip tightening on the pistol grip until my knuckles turned white. “Step inside. Let’s talk about family loyalty.”

Elena didn't blink. She looked past me, her eyes sweeping over Grace, who was curled into a ball on the floor, shielding her swollen belly. A look of cold, clinical disappointment crossed Elena’s face.

“You look terrible, Grace,” Elena remarked coolly, as if commenting on a withered flower in a garden. “I told you to drink your broth. Stubbornness is an unbecoming trait in a Rossi wife.”

“You imprisoned my wife,” I stepped forward, putting myself directly between my mother and Grace, keeping the barrel of my gun pointed downward but ready. “You lied to me for six months. You staged an abandonment. You tortured the mother of my unborn child.”

“I protected this family,” Elena shot back, her tone hardening into absolute steel, stepping across the threshold. “You were distracted by a foreign war, Julian. You had syndicates in Rome, Marseille, and Berlin crying out for blood, and you were writing poetry to a girl from a minor syndicate family who brought nothing to our table but a pretty face and a weak womb. I fixed your mistake.”

“A mistake?” I snarled, taking another step toward her. “She is carrying my heir! Your own blood!”

“My grandson will be raised by an organization, not by a sentimental boy blinded by hormones,” Elena replied, her eyes flashing with fanatical ambition. She turned her icy gaze toward the old butler. “Thomas. You let him down here.”

Thomas dropped his head, tears spilling down his withered cheeks. “I’m sorry, Madame Elena... I couldn't stop him. When he broke the door... I couldn't lie to him anymore.”

“Then you have outlived your usefulness,” Elena whispered.

Before I could process her words, one of the guards behind Elena raised his silenced pistol and fired twice into Thomas’s chest.

The old butler gasped, his eyes wide with shock, before collapsing backward onto the concrete floor in a pool of spreading crimson.

“Thomas!” Grace screamed from the corner.

“No!” I roared, bringing my gun up instantly and squeezing the trigger twice.

The first bullet caught the guard who fired in the throat, spinning him around before he hit the ground. The second round grazed the shoulder of the second guard, sending the rest of them scrambling backward out into the corridor for cover.

“You insane bitch!” I yelled, pivoting to face my mother, keeping the gun trained on her chest. “You just murdered a man who served this family for forty years!”

Elena didn't flinch. She didn't even look down at Thomas’s body. She simply adjusted the cuffs of her white blazer, a thin, cruel smile touching her lips.

“Loyalty is earned, Julian, not inherited,” Elena said calmly. “And right now, you are standing on the wrong side of history. Guards! Take the girl! Secure my grandson!”

The remaining three guards charged the doorway, weapons raised.

I didn't hesitate. I fired three rapid shots down the narrow corridor, shattering the overhead light fixture and plunging the hallway into chaotic, flashing shadows. Bullets chipped the concrete wall inches from my head, screaming into the masonry.

“Grace, grab my hand!” I shouted, dropping low, spinning around, and hauling my terrified, pregnant wife to her feet.