"The Billionaire Mob Boss Was Moments Away From a Power Marriage—Until Four Mini-Me Boys Walked Into a Restaurant Restroom and Blew Up His Entire Empire!"

"You're not going anywhere, Elena," I said, my voice hardening into steel. I reached out, my fingers gently catching her wrist before she could turn toward the door.

Her skin was warm, sending a jolt straight up my arm. She flinched, trying to pull away, but I held fast—gentle enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to show her that the timid boy she had known six years ago was long gone. I was Dominic Moretti now, a man who didn't let go of what belonged to him.

"Let go of me, Dominic," she hissed, her eyes darting down to the four boys who were now clinging to her skirt, looking up at us with wide, curious expressions. "You're making a scene. And more importantly, you're scaring them."

I looked down at the four identical faces staring up at me. They weren't scared; they looked intensely intrigued, watching our exchange like a tennis match. The oldest-looking one—by a matter of seconds, no doubt—tilted his head and crossed his arms in an exact imitation of my own posture.

I couldn't help the small, breathless chuckle that escaped my lips. "Scaring them? Look at them, Elena. They look like a tiny mob tribunal. They're evaluating my negotiation tactics."

"Mommy, who is this man?" the third boy asked, his voice soft but clear. "Why does he look like us?"

Elena closed her eyes for a brief second, taking a deep, shuddering breath as if gathering the strength to fight a war she hadn't planned on waging tonight. When she opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a cold, protective armor.

"Boys," she said, her voice steady and calm. "Go wait outside by the hostess stand. Mommy needs to talk to this... gentleman for a minute."

"No way," the first boy said stubbornly. "He looks like trouble. We're staying right here."

God help me, they really are mine, I thought, a strange mixture of pride and absolute terror washing over me.

"He's right," I intervened, dropping my hand from Elena's wrist and crouching down so I was at eye level with the four miniature Morettis. Up close, the resemblance was staggering. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that multiplied every trait I possessed. "Listen up, guys. I'm Dominic. And I need to talk to your mom about some very important adult business. Why don't you head out to the lobby, grab yourselves a round of Shirley Temples on my tab, and tell the host that Mr. Moretti sent you?"

The four boys exchanged quick, telepathic glances—another trait they definitely inherited from me—before the leader nodded slowly.

"Fine. But if you make Mommy cry, we're coming back in here with the heavy artillery," he warned seriously.

"Deal," I replied, suppressing a grin.

As soon as the heavy door swung shut behind them, the playful warmth vanished from the room, replaced by the crushing weight of our shared history.

Elena turned on me the second we were alone. "Are you out of your mind? Sending my sons out into a restaurant alone?"

"They're safe here, Elena. This is my territory," I said, stepping closer to her, backing her gently against the clean white tile wall. She didn't try to run; she just glared up at me, her chest heaving. "Now, we are going to stop playing games. You had four of my children. You hid them from me for six years. Why?"

"Because you were drowning in blood, Dominic!" she yelled, her voice cracking with suppressed agony. "Your father had just died, the war for the docks was starting, and your uncles were lining up to see who would be ruthless enough to take the crown. You told me yourself that you couldn't keep me safe, that the Moretti name was a target. So when I found out I was pregnant—with quadruplets, no less—I packed a bag, caught a train to Chicago, and never looked back. I built a safe, normal life for them far away from your mafia syndicate!"

Her words hit me like a physical blow. She had done it to protect them. She had sacrificed our love because she knew the dark, violent reality of my world.

"And now?" I asked quietly, my hand reaching out to trace a stray lock of hair away from her cheek. She shivered at the touch, closing her eyes for a fraction of a second. "Why are you back in Boston, Elena?"

"My mother is sick," she whispered, her voice breaking. "She's in a hospice in Cambridge. I had to bring the boys back so they could say goodbye to their grandmother. We're leaving on Sunday."

"You're not going anywhere," I said firmly.