The Ruthless Mafia's Heir

Aria’s POV

The first time I saw the black car, I told myself it was nothing.

The second time, I gripped Leo’s little hand tighter and walked faster.

The third time, I stopped pretending.

It was there. Always there. Parked across the street, quiet, watching. No headlights, no running engine, just a sleek black silhouette, waiting. I couldn't see inside. But someone was looking out.

I knew it. Felt it.

Still, I told myself it was paranoia. That if I ignored it, it would go away.

It didn’t.

And the thing about paranoia? It doesn’t just eat at you, it makes it worse. Because once you start seeing ghosts, you stop knowing what’s real.

---

At the coffee shop, Marco didn’t flirt with me. He didn’t joke about me always ordering the same thing.

He barely met my eyes.

"Here you go, Miss Moretti." He shoved the cup toward me so fast the lid nearly popped off. His hands trembled.

I didn’t reach for it. "Everything okay?"

His throat bobbed. He glanced around, his eyes darting to the door, the windows—everywhere but me. That’s when I noticed it. The dark bruise on his cheekbone, his thumb wrapped in a fresh bandage.

"Marco—"

"You should be careful," he muttered, before he hurried away.

A chill slid down my spine.

---

That night, after putting Leo to bed, I found it.

A single slip of paper, pushed under my bedroom door.

"Running only makes it worse." The paper read.

My hands shook.

I turned, moving fast, yanking open the closet door. The emergency bag was already packed. It had been packed since the first day I saw the car.

I needed to leave.

Then, a sound.

Soft. Almost nothing. A floorboard creaking.

Inside the apartment.

The air turned hot, my pulse drumming loudly in my ears. I swallowed, slow, careful, forcing my body not to shake.

A shadow shifted.

Then, a voice. Low. Cold. Familiar.

"Did you really think you could hide from me, wife?"

I didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

But I turned either way, slowly, fingers brushing the light switch. A click. Yellow light flooded the room.

And there he was.

Lorenzo de Luca.

Flesh and blood. A nightmare standing in my bedroom like I’d summoned him by thinking too hard.

He hadn’t aged a day. Same sharp cheekbones, same cruel smirk, same way of looking at me like I was something small and breakable.

My hand was shaking. I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, but I forced my face blank as the duffel bag slipped from my grip. The thud was softer than I expected. Like even my bag knew better than to make noise around him.

Lorenzo chuckled, stepping forward as I staggered back. He crouched, picked up the bag, and tipped it over.

Cash. Clothes. A flashlight. Credit cards. My fake ID.

His lips curled. "Always so quick to run, aren’t you?"

I swallowed hard. "It’s called being efficient."

"Is that what we’re calling it now?" He nudged a pair of tiny sneakers with his shoe, tilting his head like he was just now seeing them. "When my men told me you had a son, I almost didn’t believe it. Where’s the bastard?"

My fingers curled into fists.

"My son is not a bastard, you piece of—"

Lorenzo sighed, already bored. "Who’s talking about your son?" He stepped closer. "I meant the father. The fool who put a baby in another man’s wife." His eyes glinted with danger. "Did you tell him you were married? Did you tell him I was the first to have you? Or did you let him think he was special?"

I inhaled calmly. I should have let him believe Leo was another man’s child. Maybe he would have left us alone. Maybe this whole nightmare would have ended before it even began.

But my mouth ran too fast.

"You’re the bastard," I said instead, voice flat. "Because he's your son."

Silence.

Lorenzo’s expression didn’t change at first. He just stood there, staring, like the words hadn't registered. Like his brain had hit a wall trying to process them. Then, something flickered behind his eyes, too fast to catch, but there was a crack in his usual mask of indifference.

His fingers twitched. His jaw tightened.

Then, he laughed. A quiet, breathy thing that didn’t match the sharpness in his eyes.

"You expect me to believe that?" His grip on my chin tightened just a little, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You ran without a clue! Left everything behind. And now you want to stand here and tell me you were carrying my child the whole time?"

I forced my face blank. Forced my pulse to stay steady. "Believe what you want."

His thumb brushed my jaw, slowly, almost sensual. His eyes scanning my face for something—some giveaway, some weakness.

And then, like a switch flipping, the tension snapped.

Lorenzo let go of me and took a step back, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping. He exhaled hard through his nose.

"You're serious," he muttered. His tone had changed, he was angry. "You're actually fucking serious."

He turned back to me. "You had my kid." A humorless chuckle left him. "You had my kid, and you never told me."

I stayed silent.

His gaze flicked downward. The small sneakers, half-spilled from my duffel bag. His shoulders tensed, and for the first time since he walked into my bedroom, he looked off-balance.

Then—

Footsteps.

Soft. Shuffling.

Lorenzo’s head snapped up.

Leo stood in the doorway, tiny and serious in his Power Rangers pajamas, a plastic bat clutched tight in his little hands.

"Is the monster hurting you again, Mom?"

My heart cracked open.

Lorenzo just stared at him.

And for the first time in his miserable, terrifying life—

I think Lorenzo forgot how to breathe.