The Mafia Boss’s Wife Abandoned Their Twin Babies During an Attack—But the Poor Maid Ran Back to Save Them

Victoria Costello arrived at the Newport fortress forty-eight hours later, wrapped in a white chinchilla coat and wearing oversized sunglasses to disguise eyes that hadn't shed a single genuine tear.

She walked into Damian’s private study with dramatic tears rehearsed to perfection.

"Damian, my love!" Victoria cried, throwing her arms around his neck as he sat behind a massive mahogany desk. "It was horrifying! The men... the guns... Briggs pulled me into the tunnel! I begged him to go back for our angels, but he said they were already gone! I have been weeping for two days straight—"

"Shut up," Damian said.

The tone was so flat, so utterly devoid of warmth, that Victoria froze mid-sob.

Damian gestured toward a sleek laptop on his desk. He tapped a key.

On the high-definition screen, crystal-clear security footage played. The camera in the master dressing room had survived the initial blasts on emergency power.

There was Victoria, frantically stuffing velvet boxes into a duffel bag.

There was Briggs: *“The children—”*

And there was Victoria’s shrill, recorded voice, ringing through the study with devastating clarity: *“Will slow us down. Damian can have more children. I’m not dying in this house.”*

Victoria’s face drained of every drop of blood. She backed away from the desk, clutching her purse to her chest. "Damian... I was in shock... I didn't know what I was saying—"

"You left my flesh to burn so you could save three million dollars in diamonds," Damian whispered. He stood up slowly, all six-foot-three of him radiating lethal fury. "Diamonds I bought you."

The study door clicked open.

Clara walked in, carrying Oliver in a sling across her chest, holding a sterile baby bottle in one hand. She stopped abruptly when she saw Victoria.

Victoria’s eyes darted from Clara to the baby, then back to Damian. Her terror turned instantly into aristocratic venom.

"The maid?" Victoria sneered, her voice cracking. "You believe the word of a common gutter rat? She probably took them to extort you! You're letting this servant parade around with my sons?"

"She isn't a servant anymore," Damian said coldly. He walked over to Clara, taking the bottle from her hands. His gaze softened for a fraction of a second as he looked at Oliver, who gurgled happily, reaching tiny hands toward his father’s dark hair.

Then Damian looked back at Victoria, his eyes turning to ice.

"Your father’s family helped orchestrate the Moretti breach, Victoria. They wanted my empire. You wanted my fortune. You both failed."

Two armed guards appeared silently in the doorway behind Victoria.

"Damian, please! We are married in the church!" she screamed, thrashing as the guards seized her arms. "You can't do this to a Falcone!"

"Your father is already dead," Damian answered flatly. "And you... you are going to a small convent in northern Maine. You will have a bed, a Bible, and four walls. You will never see the sun without permission, and you will never speak the name Costello again."