The Runaway Sister's Abandoned Mafia Heir

Siena POV

The morning sun slanted through the cracked blinds of my small apartment.

I had already messaged my civilian desk job at first light, claiming a family emergency. The baby had woken twice in the night, his cries sharp and insistent, and I had stumbled through feedings with shaking, inexperienced hands.

Now, I sat on the edge of my faded sofa, feeding him again. He took the bottle eagerly, his dark eyes fixed on mine.

Those eyes were far too intense for a newborn. They did not belong to Serena. They belonged to him. And staring into them, I felt the last of my hesitation burn away. There was only one way to ensure this child survived—and it wasn't hiding.

Once the baby fell into a peaceful sleep, I placed him gently in a makeshift bed of pillows on my mattress.

With the child secure, I walked to the kitchen counter where a thick manila envelope lay next to my sink. Serena had dispatched it via a discreet same-day courier mere hours before she fled, timing its arrival to coincide with my entrapment at the hospital.

I ripped the flap open.

A notarized relinquishment of custody form slid out, the father's name a stark, empty line meant to obscure her trail. Alongside it was a handwritten letter.

The ink was smudged, written in Serena's frantic scrawl. She confessed her sheer terror of Dante's wrath, admitting she could not survive in his world, and formally bequeathed the burden of the child to me. She wrote that I was stronger than her, that I was the only one who could manage this.

It was a pathetic justification for treason.

I crumpled the letter in my fist. Then, slowly, I smoothed it out again. Evidence. Every piece of her betrayal would be laid at the Don's feet.

Returning to the bed, I picked up the sleeping infant and wrapped him securely in a thick blanket.

Moments later, I walked out of my apartment and hailed a cab on the busy street.

"Take me to the financial district," I told the driver, reciting the address of Dante's towering corporate headquarters.

The ride was a blur of gray buildings and flashing traffic lights.

When the cab pulled up to the massive glass and steel skyscraper, I paid the fare and stepped out onto the pavement. The building was a fortress. Men in dark suits with earpieces stood by the heavy revolving doors.

I passed them without a glance, keeping my spine perfectly straight. Inside, the lobby was pristine—all white marble and polished chrome. Two security guards immediately moved to intercept me, their hands already reaching for their earpieces.

"I need to see the Boss," I said. My voice was steady, betraying none of the adrenaline flooding my veins.

"Do you have an appointment?" the receptionist asked without looking up from her screen.

"No," I replied. "Tell him I have a delivery."

The guards crossed their arms. "You need to leave, miss," one of them ordered.

The baby began to fuss in my arms. Then, in the echoing silence of the marble lobby, he let out a sharp, demanding cry that stopped every conversation cold.

People in expensive suits turned and stared.

I ignored the guards and pulled a pre-made bottle from my bag. I stood in the middle of the syndicate's pristine lobby and calmly fed the hungry heir.

A tall man stepped out of a private elevator bank. He had a cold, sharp face and a dangerous stillness about him—the Underboss, acting as Executive Secretary for the legitimate facade.

He walked over to me, his eyes darting to the baby. "What is your business here?" he demanded.

"I will speak only to the Boss," I said coldly.

The Secretary studied my face for a long moment. He pulled a phone from his pocket and made a tense, quiet call. He nodded once, then slipped the phone away.

"Follow me," he said.

He escorted me through a set of heavy security doors and into a private elevator. We rode up in total silence. I watched the floor numbers climb, each digit a step closer to a man who could end my life with a single word.

Fear was a luxury I could no longer afford.

When the elevator stopped, the doors slid open to a massive, dimly lit office that smelled of expensive leather and dark wood.

A man sat behind a desk of dark, solid wood that seemed to absorb all light, like a reef of black rock.

Dante.

He radiated a terrifying power that made the air in the room feel instantly heavier. His dark eyes locked onto me, cold and calculating.

I walked straight up to his desk. I lowered my arms and placed the child directly onto the gleaming, polished wood.

"A delivery," I said. "You're going to sign for it. And then you're going to decide what kind of man you really are."

The Don's eyes dropped to the bundle on his desk—his son, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, delivered by a woman he had never seen before.

And in that moment, for the first time in his reign, Dante had absolutely no idea what was coming next.