Jilted Ex-Wife? The Ruthless Heiress Returns

I sat outside the delivery room, waiting for Gianna-my gangster husband Enzo's mistress-to give birth.

The moment that baby let out its first cry, the five-year blood oath I had sworn with the crime family would be fully honored.

But the delivery-room doors were flung open, and Enzo dragged me roughly to the child.

"Raise him as your own." Enzo gave the order coldly, indifferent to the way his brutal grip had torn open the wound on my hand that had just been stitched.

Then he turned and lifted his mistress into his arms, so gently it was almost obsessive-a tenderness he had never once given me in five years.

To protect that woman, he forced me out of the master bedroom, made me an unpaid nanny to his bastard son, and made me watch him dote on Gianna.

He had no idea that the five years I had endured in a marriage in name only had nothing to do with love.

And now the birth of his heir was exactly the escape signal I had planned for all along.

I tossed out the freshly signed annulment agreement, took the hundred million dollars that was mine, and vanished from the face of the earth.

Chapter 1

Sitting outside the cold, antiseptic-smelling delivery room, I listened to my husband's mistress screaming in pain inside. I knew that the moment that bastard child was born, the five-year blood oath I had sworn with the Mafia would be fully honored-and I would finally be free.

But when those heavy double doors were flung open, my husband strode out and, without a word, hauled me over to the bassinet. The sudden, brutal weight tore open the fresh stitches.

Enzo gave his order coldly, over the blood-soaked, wailing newborn: "Raise him as your own." His tone carried the absolute authority of the man who ruled New York's underworld.

He turned and walked away at once, without so much as a glance at my bloodied palm.

Enzo Falcone was the underboss of the Falcone family-a man who could plan a mob assassination as casually as he planned dinner.

A bespoke Italian suit concealed the bloody crimes he had been steeped in for decades.

That dark, suffocating presence of his had always been enough to make everyone in the room tremble and bow.

For five whole years, all of New York high society had whispered about how pathetic my situation was.

They mocked me-Sienna Moretti-and called me a canary locked in a gilded cage, keeping a sexless marriage while running herself ragged waiting on the pregnant mistress of a ruthless mob boss.

But they had no idea what the truth was.

Late last night, Enzo had stood in our vast, empty, luxurious kitchen, pouring himself a drink and pouring out his nauseating guilt on me with fake sincerity.

"Gianna saved my life in an assassination years ago," he said, swirling the liquor in his glass, his tone utterly matter-of-fact. "That child is nothing but a debt of gratitude. The pregnancy is simply how I repay it."

"My true loyalty will always belong to you alone," he swore.

But I did not give him the deep, forgiving devotion he expected. My heart had died from his betrayal long ago.

He flew into a rage and smashed the heavy crystal whiskey glass against the marble countertop.

For the next hour, I quietly picked up the sharp fragments.

One of them cut deep into my right palm. The estate doctor put in seven stitches.

This morning, when Gianna's water broke and she went into labor, Enzo slapped a stack of family guardianship papers in my face: "Sign them. Acknowledge the child properly."

I refused, calmly.

Now, watching the flustered nurses hurry the bloodied newborn back into the delivery room, I sat in the hospital corridor and thought of the blood oath I had sworn with Don Salvatore five years ago.

It was a contract worth over a hundred million dollars, meant to save the legitimate shipping empire my late mother had left behind-an empire the Falcone family desperately needed as a front for their smuggling routes.

The terms for breaking the contract were simple: the moment an heir to the Falcone family was born, my debt would be wiped clean, my mother's shipping routes and patents would come back to my name, and the remaining fifty million dollars would be paid out on the day the severance was sealed.

My protection of Gianna had never been about any pitiful love for my husband. Keeping her pregnancy safe was only about speeding up my own escape.

The delivery-room doors swung wide again.

Don Salvatore Falcone stepped into the corridor, his heavy wooden cane striking sharp, grating notes on the hospital tiles.

Six heavily armed family gunmen flanked the old, cold-blooded patriarch.

The Don raised his cane and blocked Enzo, who was trying to go back into the delivery room.

"An heir of the Falcone family must have a legitimate, respectable mother, to preserve the family's face," the Don ordered, his voice coarse and rasping, like a grindstone scraping.

A commotion erupted inside the delivery room.

Gianna forced herself up from the delivery bed, face ashen, tears streaking her cheeks.

She snatched the baby from the nurse who had just carried it inside and was still dazed, found the door with her shoulder, and staggered out into the corridor already sobbing.

A hoarse, desperate growl rose in Enzo's throat.

He broke free of the Don's men, pulled Gianna into his arms, and took the child from her trembling hands.

And then, without a moment's hesitation, he turned and shoved the infant against my chest again.

The palm the doctor had just stitched was torn open completely.

A sharp, searing pain shot up my arm; blood welled through my fingers and dripped onto the floor.

The startled baby burst into loud crying.

A nurse beside me gasped and hurriedly took the wailing child from my arms.

She grabbed a roll of gauze and pressed it hard against the gaping wound, her hands shaking uncontrollably at the sight of all that blood.

I did not even look down at my hand.

My eyes were on Enzo as he took off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Gianna's trembling shoulders.

He gathered her carefully against his chest, then lowered his head and kissed the top of her hair-all the fierce, protective tenderness he had never once given me.

For five years he had used the trauma of mob life and his bloodstained hands as an excuse, claiming he loathed any physical contact.

He had forced our marriage to remain a hollow, sexless thing-he would not even share a bed with me.

And yet with Gianna, he had no boundaries at all.

I watched him carry her away until they disappeared at the far end of the long corridor, leaving me bleeding and the sound of a baby crying in my ears.

The nurse looked at me with profound pity and urged me to go after my husband before it was too late.

I pulled my hand out of hers. The chill running through my veins quietly hardened into an unbreakable, cold resolve-it was time to execute my escape plan.