He Ditched His Billion-Dollar Wedding When 4 Identical Strangers Looked Up in the Mirror and Asked: "Are You Our Dad?"

By midnight, the storm over Boston had turned vicious. Rain lashed against the armored windows of Dominic’s black Maybach as it idled on Hanover Street in the North End.

In the passenger seat sat Marcus Vance.

Marcus was fifty, built like a brick fortress, with a shaved head and a quiet, lethal efficiency that had kept Dominic alive through two assassination attempts and three corporate takeovers. He had been Dominic’s private head of intelligence for twelve years.

Marcus turned from his laptop, the blue glow illuminating the grim line of his mouth.

"I pulled the hospital records from New Hampshire, boss," Marcus said, handing Dominic a thick manila folder. "Elena Rossi checked into Catholic Medical Center in Manchester under the name Elena Miller six years ago. Quadruplet birth. Four boys. Julian, Leo, Nico, and Mateo. Born healthy, though Leo spent five days in neonatal ICU due to mild respiratory distress."

Dominic flipped through the pages with trembling fingers.

There were photocopies of the birth certificates. Father’s name: *Unknown.* Mother’s occupation: *Baker.*

Beneath the birth certificates was an invoice from a premier private investigator firm in Boston—the firm Dominic had hired six years ago to locate Elena.

"Look at the bottom invoice, Dominic," Marcus said quietly. "Your mother intercepted your search team twenty-four hours after Elena left. She paid the lead investigator a half-million retainer to feed you fake intelligence. The photographs of Elena in Milan? Taken by an operative using a lookalike model hired out of Toronto. Elena never left New England."

Dominic closed the folder. The sound was like a gunshot in the confined space of the vehicle.

"Where is she now?" Dominic asked.

"Six blocks away," Marcus replied. "She didn't stay at the Bostonian Hotel. After you left Bellamy House, she got nervous. She packed the boys into her beat-up Subaru and drove straight to her aunt’s old apartment above the bakery on Prince Street. My men have perimeter eyes on the building. Nobody’s gone in, nobody’s gone out."

"And the Barretts?"

Marcus grimaced. "Thomas Barrett is at the Harvard Club right now with three members of the state licensing commission. Word on the wire is they’re preparing emergency injunctions against our construction permits in South Boston. But that’s not the bad part."

Dominic looked up, his eyes black as pitch. "What’s the bad part?"

"Your mother left the conservatory thirty minutes after you did. She didn't go back to the estate. She went to the firm’s downtown office. She called Salvatore Genovese."

Dominic’s jaw tightened. Salvatore Genovese was an old-school enforcer from the remnants of the Winter Hill gang, a man who operated in the sewer beneath Boston’s political machinery. If Victoria was calling Genovese, she wasn't looking to salvage the Barrett merger.

She was looking to eliminate the leverage that had broken it.

"She thinks if the children disappear, I will return to the table," Dominic said, the realization settling into his bones with glacial certainty.

"Victoria doesn't know where Elena is yet," Marcus said. "Our security protocols scrambled Elena’s trail from Bellamy House. But Genovese has ears in every precinct and municipal dispatch. Give him twelve hours, and he’ll trace the vehicle registration to Prince Street."

Dominic stared through the rain-streaked windshield at the cobblestone streets of the North End.

This was where he had met Elena. In the dawn hours, when the scent of proofing yeast and roasted espresso beans filled the quiet alleys. He had thought he was protecting her back then by keeping her separate from his violent, cutthroat reality.

He had been a fool. Separation had left her unprotected. It had left his sons defenseless.

"Call twenty of our primary operators," Dominic commanded. "Not the contract muscle. The inner guard. Ex-military. Men who answer directly to me and don't care about Victoria’s signature on the trust accounts."

Marcus nodded once. "And the orders?"

"Lock down Prince Street. If anyone not bearing my personal clearance comes within two hundred yards of that bakery, put them in the ground."

"Understood."