The Mafia Boss Told His Pregnant Wife to Take Any Child Who Wanted Her, Then All Four of His Heirs Stood Up at Once

The rain had turned into a thick, grey sleet by the time the vintage Volvo station wagon pulled into the driveway of a small, two-story stone cottage in Garrison, twenty miles north of the Northcott estate.

The cottage had belonged to Eliza’s late aunt. It was modest, surrounded by overgrown pine trees and an unkempt garden, light years away from the iron gates, armed guards, and pristine acreage of the Westchester compound.

Wyatt turned off the engine.

Inside the car, the five of them sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the sleet tapping against the windshield.

"He's going to track us," Micah said from the back seat, his shoulders hunched inside his leather jacket. At twenty-one, Micah was the most volatile of the siblings, built like a linebacker but carrying a restless, hyper-vigilant energy. "The moment the funeral service ends and he realizes we aren't coming back, he'll send Frank and the security detail."

"Let him," Wyatt said calmly, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Frank won't lay a hand on us. He knows better."

"Frank obeys Dad," Delaney countered, turning from the front passenger seat. "Dad commands this whole county, Wyatt. The police, the banks, the local political machinery. We just walked out on the Northcott fortune. We don't have access to our trust accounts—he probably froze our credit cards fifteen minutes ago."

Wyatt pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and showed it to Delaney.

Account Status: Frozen.

Delaney sighed, running a hand through her dark hair. "See?"

Eliza turned around from the passenger side, placing a hand on Delaney's shoulder. "We have shelter. We have heat. And I have my personal account at the local credit union—the one your father never touched. It’s not millions, but it’s enough for groceries and medical supplies until the baby arrives."

Phoebe leaned forward from the back row, her eyes still red-rimmed. "Are you okay, Eliza? The drive... the stress..."

"I'm fine, sweetie," Eliza said gently, though the dull ache in her lower back was growing more pronounced by the hour. "Our little boy is tough. Just like his brothers and sisters."

The four of them looked at her, a strange, collective quiet falling over the vehicle.

For thirteen years, they had lived under the iron rule of Helena Northcott and the cold, protective shadow of their father. They had been taught that love was conditional—measured in performance, loyalty to the brand, and obedience to the family line. Their biological mother had abandoned them; their grandmother had judged them; their father had governed them.

Only Eliza had ever simply loved them.

"Let's get the bags inside," Wyatt said, stepping out into the cold rain.

The cottage was chilly, but within an hour, Micah had built a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, Delaney had found old blankets in the linen closet, and Wyatt was sitting at the kitchen table with his laptop open, powered by a mobile hotspot.

Eliza sat in an old wingback chair near the hearth, a thick wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Phoebe sat on the rug beside her, her head resting against Eliza’s knee, allowing Eliza to run her fingers gently through her hair.

"Wyatt," Eliza called softly across the small room. "What are you looking at?"

Wyatt didn't look up from his screen. His fingers flew across the keyboard. "I'm looking at the hospice network traffic from the night Grandmother died."

Delaney walked over, setting two mugs of tea on the table. "You still have access?"

"I built the security infrastructure for the Helena Care Foundation when I was twenty-two," Wyatt said, a dark, satisfaction-tinged smile touching his lips. "Dad thought he was paying a third-party cybersecurity firm. He didn't realize I kept a master administrative door in the code. I may be locked out of my bank accounts, but I am not locked out of the network."

Micah leaned against the doorframe, a fire poker resting in his hand. "Find anything?"

Wyatt’s hands suddenly stopped moving.

The glow of the monitor reflected in his dark eyes.

"What is it, Wyatt?" Eliza asked, sitting up straighter.

Wyatt zoomed in on a line of encrypted code. "The prescription override wasn't logged from the estate."

Phoebe sat up from the floor. "Where was it logged from?"

"Dr. Rusk’s private office at the Manhattan clinic," Wyatt said softly. "Timestamped at 11:14 PM—forty-five minutes before Grandmother went into cardiac arrest. And there's an outgoing automated data transfer attached to it."

"Transfer to where?" Delaney asked.

"To an offshore medical holding company registered in the Cayman Islands," Wyatt said, turning the screen so they could all see the string of financial routing numbers. "A company owned by Celeste Northcott."

The room went dead silent.

Phoebe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Mother?"

Eliza felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the winter air outside.

Celeste Northcott—the woman who had disappeared thirteen years ago, the woman Damon had claimed was a traitor who abandoned her children—was receiving encrypted medical data from Quentin Rusk on the night Helena Northcott died.

Before anyone could speak, the bright beams of headlights swept across the cottage’s front windows.

The gravel tires crunched outside in the driveway.