The Mafia Boss’s Triplets Had Never Spoken Until a Waitress Walked Past Their Table and They Called Her Mom

The Grand Ballroom of the Drake Hotel was illuminated by crystal chandeliers that cast shimmering light over three hundred of Chicago’s highest society members.

Politicians, judges, corporate executives, and underworld bosses moved through the room in tuxedos and silk gowns, drinking champagne and listening to a live string quartet.

It was the annual Metropolitan Children’s Charity Gala—and Roman Voss’s first public appearance with his new wife.

Pamela stood beside Roman at the top of the grand staircase, her hand tucked securely into the crook of his arm.

She wore a dark emerald silk gown that draped beautifully over her curves, a simple diamond necklace sparkling against her collarbone. She looked breathtaking—not like a tired waitress from Bella Rosa, but like a queen who had stepped out of an oil painting.

Roman looked down at her, his storm-grey eyes unreadable.

“You look extraordinary,” he said quietly.

Pamela looked up at him, feeling a strange, sudden warmth flush through her cheeks. “I feel like an imposter.”

“You are not an imposter,” Roman said, his grip on her hand tightening slightly. “You are the mother of my children. Look at these people, Pamela. Half of them are corrupt, the other half are cowards. None of them carry half your strength.”

Pamela looked down at the crowd.

In the center of the room stood Paul Granger, her old manager from Bella Rosa, wearing a rented tuxedo and talking nervously to a city councilman.

When Paul looked up and saw Pamela standing beside Roman Voss in an emerald gown, his jaw literally dropped. He spilled half his glass of wine onto his own cuff.

Pamela let out a small, quiet laugh.

Roman noticed. “Would you like me to ruin him?”

Pamela looked at Roman in surprise. “What?”

“Your old manager,” Roman said flatly. “Donovan told me how he treated you. I can buy the building Bella Rosa operates out of by tomorrow morning and turn it into a parking lot.”

Pamela looked into his eyes, seeing the absolute sincerity in his offer. A man who could crush a business with a single phone call was offering her vengeance like a bouquet of flowers.

“No,” Pamela said softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “Seeing me standing here beside you is punishment enough for him.”

Roman’s mouth curved into a real, genuine smile—a rare, stunning sight that transformed his hard, ruthless face into something devastatingly handsome.

“As you wish, my lady,” Roman murmured.

They walked down the stairs together.

As they reached the floor, several high-society women approached them, their eyes burning with gossip and curiosity.

“Roman, darling!” exclaimed Eleanor Vance, a wealthy socialite in red satin. “We were all so shocked to hear the news! Where on earth have you been hiding this lovely woman?”

Roman wrapped his arm around Pamela’s waist, pulling her close against his side.

“Pamela prefers privacy, Eleanor,” Roman said smoothly. “She was raised to value family over public spectacle. A rare quality in Chicago these days.”

Eleanor’s smile tightened slightly. “And the triplets? How are they doing?”

“They are thriving,” Pamela said, her voice confident, rich, and clear. “They said their first words last week.”

Eleanor blinked. “Oh? What did they say?”