"The Feared Mafia Boss Forced Me to Hold His Baby—Then Went Pale and Said, ‘Only His Mother Could Do That’"

Julian sat right beside me, his broad shoulder pressing against mine. He hadn't spoken a single word since we pulled away from the restaurant. He was busy tapping out encrypted commands on a satellite phone, his face carved from cold stone.

“Where are we going?” I finally broke the silence, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound brave.

Julian didn't look up from his phone. “To a safe house in upstate New York. Far away from Petrov’s men.”

“Petrov?”

“Dmitri Petrov,” Julian replied, his voice dripping with venom. “A Russian syndicate boss who believes eliminating my bloodline is the only way to seize control of the eastern seaboard docks. He’s the one who sent those men tonight.”

I swallowed hard, the magnitude of the danger pressing down on my chest. “And... and you really think I’m your wife? The woman who supposedly died four years ago?”

Julian finally lowered the phone. He turned his head to look at me in the dim ambient light of the car cabin. Up close, the raw, agonizing grief in his dark eyes was unmistakable—a grief that had been buried beneath years of ruthless vengeance, now violently unearthed by the sight of my face.

“I don't think, Elina. I know,” he said quietly. “Elena had a rare blood disorder called factor V Leiden deficiency. When we first met, she nearly died during a minor surgery because the doctors didn't check her clotting profile.” He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against my bare forearm. “When you cut your hand on that broken glass back at the restaurant last month—remember? You bled for nearly twenty minutes before it finally stopped. The ER doctor in Queens noted it in your intake chart because I accessed your medical records through my contacts an hour ago.”

My breath caught in my throat. I remembered that night vividly—slipping on a wet kitchen floor and slicing my palm open, wondering why a simple cut refused to clot. I had chalked it up to bad luck.

“That’s... that’s circumstantial,” I whispered, though even I didn't believe my own denial. “People share medical conditions. People look alike! Do you know how many girls in the world have brown hair and a dimple?”

“Not with a crescent-shaped birthmark behind their left ear. Not with the exact same dental bridge on their lower left molar,” Julian countered, his voice dropping to a low, aching whisper. “And certainly not with a soul that my son recognizes instantly after months of screaming at everyone else in this city.”

He reached out, his thumb lightly tracing the line of my jaw. The touch was so tender, so heartbreakingly gentle, that a hot tear finally spilled over my lashes and tracked down my cheek.

“If I am Elena,” I choked out, my voice breaking, “then why don't I remember you? Why do I remember growing up in a cramped apartment in Queens with a mother who coughed blood into a handkerchief? Why do I have twenty-four years of memories that have nothing to do with a mafia empire?”

Julian’s jaw tightened. A dark, dangerous shadow passed over his features.

“Because when Petrov’s men bombed our estate four years ago, you suffered severe traumatic brain injury,” he said, his voice laced with suppressed fury. “Your car was driven off the cliff to cover up the abduction. I spent six months tearing the city apart looking for your body. When the police closed the case, I thought you were rotting at the bottom of the ocean.”

He leaned in closer, his forehead coming to rest gently against mine. The cedar and gunpowder scent of him enveloped me completely.

“Someone wiped your memory, Elina,” Julian murmured against my lips. “Or the trauma did it for you. They dumped you in Queens to keep you safe from me—or to use you as a sleeping weapon when the time was right.”

Before I could process the terrifying implications of his words, the SUV slowed down, turning off the paved highway onto a winding gravel road hidden beneath a dense canopy of ancient pine trees.