The Day When the True Mafia Queen Was out of Prison

Aria's POV

"Who," he ground out, his voice a barely restrained growl, "exactly are you?"

My pulse hammered wildly. The grip he had on my wrist was bruising, his dark eyes tearing through my defenses, searching for the ghost of a woman he had met in an alleyway a year ago.

Before I could force a single word past the lump in my throat, Jasmine thrust herself between us.

"Dom, stop, you're hurting her!" Jasmine wedged her hands against his chest, her voice pitching into a perfect octave of wifely distress. She glanced at my torn collar, her eyes widening for a second in sheer panic before her instincts kicked in.

"Oh," Jasmine let out a breathless, forced laugh, her hands flattening against Dominic's pristine shirt. "You saw her mark. Darling, I told you about my family."

Dominic's gaze didn't leave my face. "What family?"

"The birthmark, Dom." Jasmine reached up, deliberately pulling the silk collar of her lounger down to expose her own right shoulder. "It's a Harrington family trait. I have one, and my cousin Aria has one too. See?"

I stared at her bare skin. There, painted flawlessly with waterproof cosmetic ink, was a crescent-shaped mark. It was exactly same as mine. She had prepared for this. She had known the birthmark would be a detail Dominic might remember from that night, and she had forged it on her own body to solidify her lie.

Dominic slowly turned his head to look at Jasmine's shoulder. His jaw flexed. The chaotic, violent storm in his eyes didn't vanish, but it receded behind a thick wall of ice.

He released my wrist as if my skin had burned him.

Without another word, he stepped back, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, and looked at his assistant standing quietly by the door. "Chase. We're leaving. Now."

The heavy doors of the library slammed shut behind them, leaving a suffocating silence in their wake.

The moment the lock clicked, Jasmine's fragile facade shattered. She lunged at me, grabbing my arms, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my skin.

"Are you insane?!" she hissed, her face inches from mine, eyes wild and vicious. "Are you trying to get us killed?"

"I slipped, Jasmine," I said coldly, shoving her hands off me.

"You listen to me," she breathed, her voice trembling with real, unadulterated fear. "If he finds out the truth, he won't just divorce me. He will put a bullet in my head, and then he will put one in yours for lying under his roof. Do you understand? You will be dead, and Luca will be raised by another woman. You will never see your son again."

She hit the exact nerve she was aiming for. My stomach dropped, bile rising in my throat. I pulled my torn shirt tight across my chest, turned on my heel, and walked out.

Over the next forty-eight hours, the estate felt like a powder keg waiting for a spark. Dominic avoided the residential wing entirely, barricading himself in his study or leaving for "business" before sunrise.

But my attention had shifted to something far more alarming than Dominic Valentino's piercing stares.

It was Luca.

During the day, when Jasmine supposedly "supervised" his care while I slept, the baby was practically a zombie. He barely made a sound, sleeping through feedings, his little limbs limp and lethargic.

But the moment midnight struck and my shift began, it was as if a spell broke. Luca would wake up screaming, his tiny body rigid, crying with a frantic, desperate agony that tore my heart to shreds.

Babies had colic. Babies had sleep regressions. But this felt horribly, sickeningly unnatural.

On the third afternoon, I woke up early. The sprawling mansion was unusually busy. Maria Valentino, Dominic's grandmother, had arrived for an unannounced visit.

I found them in the sunroom. Jasmine was sitting stiffly on a velvet sofa, scrolling on her phone, while Maria sat in a high-backed armchair.

The old woman was blind, her eyes milky and unfocused, but she held Luca securely in her lap.

I stood in the doorway, watching as Maria gently ran her weathered, ring-covered fingers over Luca's pale, sleeping face.

"He is too quiet," Maria murmured, her raspy voice laced with a heavy Italian accent. "A Valentino baby does not sleep like a stone, Jasmine. He breathes like he is swimming in deep water."

"He's just a good sleeper, Nonna," Jasmine said dismissively, not looking up from her screen. "The doctor said he's perfectly healthy."

I walked over to the small cart holding Luca's used daytime bottles. I intended to gather them for the dishwasher, but as I picked up the plastic bottle Jasmine had supposedly fed him an hour ago, something caught my eye.

The milk was gone, but caught in the ridge of the plastic bottom was a thick, chalky white residue.

Formula didn't clump like that. Not if it was mixed with warm water.

I turned my back to the room, my heart suddenly racing. I unscrewed the cap, swiped a finger against the bottom of the bottle, and brought it to my nose. It didn't smell like milk. It smelled faintly chemical, bitter.

My blood froze in my veins.

Sleeping pills. She was drugging my baby. To keep him quiet so she didn't have to deal with him during the day.

A visceral, blinding rage exploded in my chest. My vision actually went white at the edges. I spun around, the bottle gripped so tightly in my hand the plastic groaned.

Jasmine looked up. She saw my face. She saw the bottle in my hand.

For a split second, I saw the truth flash in her eyes, the guilt, the realization that I knew exactly what she had done.

But Jasmine was a survivor, and her counterattack was quick.

She threw her phone across the room, stood up, and let out a blood-curdling scream.

"Help! Someone help me!" Jasmine shrieked, rushing toward Maria and snatching the sleeping baby from the old woman's arms. "She's poisoning my baby! Help!"