Page 12 of Mafia Heir's Broken Vows

I open my mouth to argue, but the memory of gunfire and shattered glass stops me. For the first time tonight, fear truly sinks in. What about Leo? This is a complete fuck-up.

Laura must be worried sick. She stayed with Leo tonight, and I never called to let her know I was running late. She's probably wondering why I haven't come home if something's happened to me. I need to get word to her and let her know I'm okay—but Alessandro is here, and I can't risk letting anything slip.

He doesn't know about Leo. And he can't.

"Fine," I mutter. "But this doesn't mean I trust you."

A slow, humorless smirk spreads across his face. "I don't need your trust. I just need you alive."

I turn away, staring out the window at the empty garage. No matter how much I want to deny it, Alessandro is right. I need to stay alive—I have things to live for. I'm not sure which is more terrifying—Marco's goons or the man sitting beside me. Neither of them gives me the warm-and-fuzzies. I do know that him being back, and Marco's sudden interest in my life have to be connected.

ALESSANDRO

The heavy steel door of her family's temporary safe house clicks shut behind us, sealing us inside. The place feels like a tomb—quiet, cold, and stale. Dust hangs in the air and the faint scent of old wood seeps into my lungs. No one's been here in a while. The walls are bare, the floorboards groan under every step, and the emptiness presses down like a weight.

Serafina brushes past me, her heels clicking against the worn hardwood. She doesn't look at me, doesn't say a word. It's deliberate. She wants distance—a barrier I have every intention of tearing down.

Her defiant silence grates on my nerves. It's a protest. She doesn't want to be here—with me.

"My father and I stayed in this shithole before," she mutters, breaking the silence. Her voice is flat, but I catch the edge of frustration. "We better not be here for long. It's easy to find this place."

I ignore her tone, scanning the room with a practiced eye. Years of living in the shadows have sharpened my instincts. Two exits—one front, one back. The locks are weak, the windows fragile. The place is cluttered—stacks of unopened mail, a half-folded blanket on the couch, and the faint imprint of a life packed up in a hurry. A safe house, but not a good one.

Then I see it.

On the side table, half-buried under scattered keys and old receipts, a collection of picture frames catches my eye. My steps slow, the tension in my shoulders tightening. Something about the placement feels… intentional. Like someone left them there as a reminder.

One photo stops me cold.

A little boy. No older than three. Dark, unruly hair. High cheekbones. And eyes that look too damn much like mine.

My chest tightens, and the air in the room is suddenly too thin. I lift the frame, the glass cold against my fingers. My gaze catches on the back of the photo—scrawled in the handwriting I recognize as her father's: Leo’s third birthday.

The name hits me like a bullet. My grip on the frame tightens as the cold knot in my stomach turns into a raging fire.

"Serafina," I call out, my voice low, even. Too even.

She doesn't answer, but I hear her footsteps approaching. I don't turn. My gaze remains locked on the photo as I ask, "Who is this?"

Her silence is deafening, and when she finally speaks, her voice is clipped. "That's none of your business."

"Oh, but it is now." I step forward, holding the frame up between us. The boy's smile mocks me. "Tell me, Serafina. Who. Is. He?"

Her shoulders pull back, and she stands still. "He'smyson."

The storm inside me churns, but I don't push.

Not yet. Not until I'm certain.

"Your son,"I echo, voice as sharp as a knife. The words burn on my tongue. "And where is his father?"

She turns slowly, eyes cold and guarded. "Gone."

Gone.One word. That's all she gives me. It hurts more than it should. I study the photo again, every detail imprinted into my mind. The resemblance is undeniable—the sharp jawline, the dark hair, the eyes that could be mine. Every part of me screams the truth, but she won't say it.

"You're lying."

Her expression hardens. "No, I'm protecting him." She turns my words against me.

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