While I Gave Birth Alone, My Mafia Husband Was with Another Woman—Now He’ll Never Hold Our Son

Instead of returning to the luxurious penthouse on the Upper East Side that Lucian and I had shared, a black town car arranged by my father’s estate picked us up and drove us to a brownstone in Brooklyn. The house belonged to my late mother, hidden beneath a maze of shell companies that even Lucian’s extensive intelligence network would take time to unravel.

For two weeks, the world outside was quiet. But in Lucian’s world, a catastrophic war was brewing.

Every morning, fresh deliveries arrived at the brownstone gate. Magnificent arrangements of white peonies—my favorite flowers—and boxes of infant clothing from high-end boutiques in Paris and Milan. Lucian sent no notes, no threats, only gifts. I rejected every single delivery, giving the clothes to local women’s shelters and throwing the flowers directly into the trash.

On the fifteenth night, the storm finally reached my doorstep.

It was 2:00 AM. Nico was fast asleep in his crib beside my bed. I was sitting in the dimly lit kitchen, sipping tea, when the front door lock gave a soft, metallic click.

I didn't panic. I stood up, picked up the small silver revolver I had kept hidden beneath the kitchen counter, and walked calmly into the hallway.

The front door swung open. Rain blew inside, accompanied by the smell of expensive cologne, tobacco, and rain. Lucian stepped into the foyer, his dark suit damp, his tie loosened. He looked thinner, dark shadows purpling the skin beneath his eyes.

He stopped the moment he saw the gun leveled directly at his chest.

“You changed the security codes on your mother’s estate,” Lucian said, his voice deep and gravelly. “It took my men three days to bypass the firewall.”

“You’re trespassing, Lucian,” I said, my grip on the gun firm. “Leave before I put a bullet in your shoulder.”

Lucian didn't look at the barrel pointed at him. He looked at me—at my silk pajama set, my tied-back hair, and the color that had finally returned to my cheeks.

“I haven't slept in two weeks, Serena,” he said quietly, taking a slow step forward. “Every time I close my eyes, I see you holding Nico, looking at me like I’m a monster.”

“You left me alone to give birth while you were with Bianca,” I reminded him, my voice unyielding. “You are a monster.”

“I didn't touch her!” Lucian roared, his restraint suddenly snapping. The force of his voice made the crystal chandelier above us vibrate. “I sat across from Bianca for two hours to sign a treaty that prevented her brother from launching an ambush on our docks! That photo was taken by a paparazzo paid by the Romano family to ruin my marriage!”

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, but my hands remained steady. “And why didn't you pick up your phone, Lucian? Why was your phone off for twenty-four hours?”

Lucian pulled a shattered, water-damaged phone from his pocket and threw it onto the marble table beside him. “Because Bianca’s men dropped it into the sea during our argument. I boarded a private jet twenty minutes later and flew straight into a storm just to get back to New York. I landed at JFK at six in the morning, Serena! I drove like a madman to the hospital, but by the time I got there, you had already delivered!”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I looked at the destroyed phone on the table, then back at Lucian’s desperate, bloodshot eyes. A small, foolish part of my heart wanted to believe him. It wanted to fall into his arms and pretend that the past two weeks had been a nightmare.

But seven years of broken promises could not be erased by one truth.

“Even if that is true, Lucian,” I said softly, lowering the gun just an inch, “it changes nothing.”

Lucian took another step, closing the distance between us until the barrel of the gun was resting directly over his heart. “How can you say that? I am your husband! I love you!”

“You loved your empire more,” I whispered. “You always put the family business, the treaties, the wars, and Bianca’s threats before me. You left me alone when I needed you most. You broke something inside me, Lucian, and no explanation can sew it back together.”

A single tear escaped Lucian’s eye, slipping down his rough cheek. The sight shook me to my core—I had never, in seven years, seen Lucian Moretti cry.

“Please, Serena,” he rasped, his hand rising to cover mine on the grip of the gun. “Don't push me away. Let me see my son. Just five minutes.”