The Mafia Boss Told Everyone She Meant Nothing to Him, but Five Years Later the Little Boy Beside Her Asked One Question He Couldn’t Survive

The rain had returned in full force by the time Claire’s taxi pulled up to her Ballard apartment building.

She threw a fifty-dollar bill at the driver, jumped out into the downpour, and ran up the exterior wooden stairs to her second-floor apartment.

She unlocked the door with shaking hands and burst inside.

Rachel was standing in the kitchen, holding a damp washcloth, looking frantic. "Claire! Thank God. He's in his bedroom. His fever spiked to 103 ten minutes ago."

Claire dropped her coat on the floor and ran straight down the hallway into Leo’s bedroom.

The small boy was lying in his bed, his cheeks flushed bright red, his dark hair damp with sweat, breathing heavily. His velvet bear was clutched tightly in his small arm.

"Leo," Claire whimpered, dropping to her knees beside his bed, placing her cool hand against his burning forehead. "Sweetheart, Mommy's here."

Leo opened his gray-blue eyes sluggishly, looking up at her with a tired, feverish frown. "Mommy... my head hurts."

"I know, baby. I know," Claire said, her tears finally overflowing. "Rachel, call Dr. Stevens. Ask if we should take him to the children's emergency room."

Suddenly, the front door of the apartment downstairs slammed open with immense force.

Heavy, rapid footsteps rushed up the wooden staircase.

Rachel gasped, running out of the kitchen. "Claire! Someone's in the hall!"

Claire stood up from Leo's bed, stepping in front of his bedroom door to shield her son, her hands clenched into fists.

Vincent Caruso strode through the apartment doorway, soaking wet from the rain, his dark overcoat dripping onto the hardwood floor. Marcus and two armed guards stood right behind him in the hallway.

"Vincent!" Claire yelled, her voice filled with panic and fury. "What are you doing here? Get out of my house!"

Vincent ignored her completely. His sharp eyes swept the small, warm living room—the framed paintings, the children's toys stacked neatly in a plastic bin near the sofa, the small sneakers lined up by the rug.

His gaze locked onto the open door of the bedroom where Claire was standing.

"You left the gala in a panic," Vincent said, his voice deep and raspy from running up the stairs. "Marcus traced your taxi. I thought you were in danger."

"I am not in danger! My son is sick!" Claire screamed, tears streaming down her face. "Leave us alone, Vincent! Please!"

Vincent froze.

My son.

Slowly, agonizingly, Vincent walked down the short hallway toward her. His silver eyes were wide, dark, and filled with a sudden, overwhelming shock that made him look completely ungrounded.

Claire held her breath, refusing to move from the doorway.

Vincent stopped two feet away from her. He looked past her shoulder into the softly lit bedroom.

Lying on the small bed, holding his velvet bear, was a four-year-old boy with dark hair, a defined square jawline, and a pair of striking, silver-gray eyes that were an exact, indisputable duplicate of Vincent’s own.

Vincent’s breath hitched violently in his throat.

The world seemed to stop moving. The sound of the howling wind outside, the patter of rain against the roof, the quiet humming of the refrigerator—everything vanished into absolute, deafening silence.

Vincent dropped his heavy leather gloves onto the floor.

He took a slow, trembling step into the bedroom, his eyes fixed on the little boy resting on the pillows.

"Vincent, don't..." Claire whispered, her voice breaking into a sob.

Vincent ignored her. He walked over to the side of the bed and slowly dropped to his knees on the carpet, his tall, powerful frame looking impossibly large beside the small child's bed.

He stared at Leo's face. He looked at the shape of the boy's forehead, the curve of his mouth, the hands clutching the bear.

Vincent’s chest heaved with heavy, silent gasps. The man who ruled an empire, who had faced down federal prosecutors and armed hitmen without blinking, was trembling so violently his hands shook against his knees.

Leo looked at the large stranger kneeling beside his bed. He didn't look frightened. He blinked his feverish gray eyes, looking curious.

"Are you a doctor?" Leo asked softly, his voice raspy.

Vincent couldn't speak. A thick, painful knot had formed in his throat, choking back a wave of emotion so vast and overwhelming it threatened to break him completely.

He slowly shook his head. "No, little one," Vincent managed to whisper, his voice raw and broken. "I'm not a doctor."

Leo’s tired eyes wandered to Vincent's open overcoat.

Tucked into the interior pocket of Vincent's suit jacket was a worn, silver-framed photograph that had peeked out when he dropped to his knees.

It was a small, high-resolution portrait of a nine-month-old baby boy sitting on a white blanket—a photograph that Vincent's private investigators had discreetly acquired from a local pediatric clinic three months ago when they first tracked Claire's identity to Seattle.

Leo reached out a small, warm hand, pointing a tiny finger at the silver frame sticking out of Vincent's jacket.