The Mafia King Lost His Queen

Zane's POV

Tomorrow at 10 AM, Nina's got her prenatal exam. You'll come with her. Get your lungs checked while you're at it.

I typed the message and set the phone down on the nightstand, screen facing up, waiting for the familiar pulse of a reply. There was none. And honestly, I wasn't surprised. I didn't know it at the time, but Quinn had already pulled her SIM card and powered the phone down. Just like that, she was gone. Cut me off entirely, with all the finality of a slammed door that would never open again.

...

The next morning, Dr. Mancini's private clinic hummed with the low murmur of medical staff and the antiseptic bite of disinfectant beneath something softer, lavender oil diffusing from a corner table. Nina clung to my arm like she'd collapse without it.

"Zane, is the baby okay?"

I nodded, keeping my voice even. "Rowan said the baby's strong. No lasting damage from the fire."

She sagged with relief. "Thank God. You've been so quiet since we got here. I thought something happened."

Something had.

I couldn't get Quinn's face out of my head. The way she looked at me through the smoke, not desperate or pleading, just resigned, like she already knew I wouldn't come back for her. And the worst part? She was right. I didn't carry her out of that burning house. I carried Nina.

...

After lunch with Nina, I dropped her off at the estate and went straight to the main hall.

It was then that my underboss caught up to me.

"Don Montecchio, your grandfather has returned. He's called for a full sit-down with the senior capos."

I nodded and kept walking, but underneath the calm, something sharp twisted in my gut — tight, restless, and entirely wrong. Quinn was nowhere to be found. She hadn't gone to the clinic. She hadn't returned to the estate. None of the men stationed at the perimeter had seen her leave through the gates. Not a single camera had caught her passing. She'd vanished, and I had no idea how or when she slipped through the cracks.

Where the hell had she gone?

As I started to walk faster, I turned to my underboss again and said, "Get someone to pick up a few of the newest designer bags and some jewelry."

"For Donna Nina?"

I paused. The title sounded wrong in his mouth. It had always sounded wrong. "Send it to the Ferrante estate."

If Quinn was anywhere, it'd be there.

But if she wasn't?

I didn't want to finish that thought. Something primal had started pacing inside me, unsettled, like a caged animal sensing a change in the weather it couldn't name.

What if she was hurt? Still recovering somewhere alone?

What if she'd really left?

...

One week later, just past midnight, I came home bone-deep tired from a strategy session with the men running our border operations along the waterfront. I stepped into the main hall of the estate and saw a soft figure curled on the leather sofa in silk, like a memory that hadn't let go.

I chuckled. "Quinn, I told you… Once I finish work, I always come back. You don't have to—" I stopped.

It was Nina. Not Quinn.

Her face fell when she looked up. "Zane, she hasn't returned. Not once. I sent her so many apology messages. She won't reply. Maybe I should move out." She sniffled, on the edge of tears.

I let out a long breath and sat beside her, leaning in to kiss her forehead — not out of affection, but more out of routine. "Don't think too much about it. The baby needs a calm environment." I didn't want to say it, but I forced the words out anyway, because I knew she was waiting to hear them. "This is your home now. Yours and the baby's. Whether Quinn likes it or not."

The words tasted like ash before they even left my mouth. But Nina smiled, small and grateful, and pressed her face into my shoulder. I let her stay there. It was easier than pulling away. Easier than explaining why the rooms of this house felt emptier than they had any right to feel, when nothing of substance had actually been removed from them.

...

Later that night, I stood alone on the open terrace off the master bedroom, wearing nothing but a robe. The city sprawled below, glittering and indifferent. I lit a cigarette — something I hadn't done in years. But tonight, I couldn't stop. The craving wasn't for the smoke. The desire was to soothe the restlessness that was gnawing at me from within.

The first drag burned. The second tasted like nothing. By the third, I realized no amount of nicotine was going to fill the silence where her voice used to be.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled all the way down through my contacts until I found Quinn's name sitting quietly at the very bottom. I stared at it, thumb hovering over the call button, frozen with everything I wanted to say but didn't. How long I stood there, I couldn't tell. The cigarette burned down to the filter between my fingers, the ember kissing my skin before I noticed.

In the end, I didn't call.

I sent a message instead:

Quinn, tomorrow is Don Thorn's 80th birthday. Don't cause a scene. Don't start anything with Nina or the baby.

I waited. The wind came off the rooftops cold and sharp, pressing the robe flat against my chest, and for a second I couldn't tell if the tightness I felt was from the chill or from something else entirely. Something I refused to name.

No. It couldn't be panic.

The screen stayed dark. No reply. No read receipt. Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me from the black glass, looking like a man who had already lost something he hadn't yet admitted he wanted to keep.