Mafia Don's Regret: His Heir Never Existed

On the night of my twenty-fourth birthday, my husband walked into our heavily guarded penthouse with his pregnant childhood friend and demanded a divorce to protect her bastard child—entirely oblivious to the fact that I was carrying his.

My posture became a rigid thing at the long mahogany dining table.

The wicks of the candles I had spent hours preparing had drowned, leaving greasy craters in the frosting.

On the far side of that ruined confection, Christian Cavallaro stood.