Chapter 2 - The Gathering of KingsThe silence inside the Tribeca penthouse was profound, heavy, and absolute.
Mara stood frozen near the coffee table, her hands covering her mouth, tears spilling hot and silent down her pale cheeks as she processed the catastrophic truth that had been hidden from us for six long years.
On the sofa, six-year-old Milo set his mug down, slid off the velvet cushion, and walked quietly over to where I stood.
He looked up at my six-foot-three frame—at my broad shoulders, my dark suit, and the pale scar along my jawline. He reached out his tiny, warm hand and wrapped his little fingers around my pinky finger.
"Are you our real Dad?" Milo asked softly, his gray-blue eyes clear, brave, and unbothered by the violence in my voice.
I dropped to my knees right there on the hardwood floor, bringing myself eye-to-eye with my eldest son. My broad, calloused hands reached out, gently cupping his small, warm face, my thumb wiping a smudge of chocolate from his cheek.
"I am your real Dad, Milo," I choked out, my voice breaking with a raw, agonizing emotion I hadn't felt in my entire life. "I am your father. And I promise you on my life... no one is ever going to make you or your brothers sleep in the cold again."
Mason, Max, and Micah scrambled off the sofa, running over on their little legs, throwing their small arms around my neck, burying their faces into my dark wool vest.
I pulled all four of my sons flush against my chest, wrapping my heavy arms around them like an impenetrable fortress, weeping tears of pure, unreserved love into their soft, dark hair.
Mara dropped to her knees beside us on the floor, wrapping her arms around all five of us, her chest heaving as six years of suffocating terror, loneliness, and poverty dissolved into the warm, safe sanctuary of our family.
Five minutes later, the private elevator chimed softly.
The heavy steel doors swung open, revealing my underboss and most trusted childhood friend, Marco Rossi. Behind Marco stood six heavily armed operators dressed in dark, unbranded tactical gear.
Marco took one look at the four little boys sitting on the rug with my face, then looked at Mara, and finally locked his sharp eyes onto mine.
"My God, Dominic..." Marco whispered, his jaw dropping in absolute, disbelieving shock. "They... they're yours."
"They're my quadruplets, Marco," I said cleanly, standing up from the floor, keeping Milo beside my hip. "My mother and Leo Vance hid them from me six years ago."
Marco's face went from shock to a cold, murderous fury that mirrored my own. Leo Vance was the chief of security for the old guard—a man who had served my father and had taken orders directly from my mother behind my back.
"What are your orders, Boss?" Marco asked, his hand resting over his shoulder holster.
"Execute Protocol Omega," I commanded smoothly. "Strip Leo Vance of his security credentials. Lock down the Moretti shipping terminals in Brooklyn. Seize my mother's private trust accounts, and bring Leo Vance to the lower holding room at the docks by midnight."
"Understood, Dominic," Marco nodded without a second's delay. "And the Cartwright family?"
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I looked at Mara, who was standing beside our sons, her posture straight, her green eyes shining with newfound hope and trust.
"Tell Brielle Cartwright's father that if he steps foot in my territory," I replied, my baritone dropping into a deadly register, "I will liquidate his commercial debt notes in Jersey."
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