My mafia husband abandoned me during labor for his mistress, unaware seven years later our daughter would publicly expose him on his own stage.

The Drake Hotel suite was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of traffic outside.

Emily had finally fallen asleep on the plush king-sized bed, exhausted by the day’s emotional turmoil. Her small face looked peaceful in the amber glow of the bedside lamp.

I stood by the window, my suitcase half-packed on the luggage rack. My hands were still shaking. Every instinct screamed at me that we should have left immediately, but it was 1:00 AM, and the private car Madison arranged wasn't scheduled until dawn.

*Knock. Knock. Knock.*

Three slow, measured raps sounded against the suite door.

My blood ran cold. I tiptoed toward the door, peering through the peephole.

Vincent stood alone in the hallway. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt was rumpled, his tie loosened. No armed guards flanked him. He looked stripped bare, his broad shoulders slumped against the doorframe, staring at the floor.

“Elena,” he spoke quietly through the wood, as if sensing my presence on the other side. “Please. I know you're standing right there. Just five minutes. I don't have anyone with me. I just need to say something.”

I hesitated, my heart hammering against my ribs. I glanced back at Emily, sleeping soundly, then unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door two inches, keeping the security latch on.

“You have one minute, Vincent,” I whispered through the crack. “Speak quietly. Emily is asleep.”

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, glistening with unshed tears. Seeing him so completely broken was more unnerving than seeing him armed with a gun.

“She lied to me,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling. “Sophia falsified the records. She told me the baby died. She told me you left because you blamed me for the miscarriage.”

A shockwave ripped through my chest, but I quickly hardened my expression. “And you believed her? Without checking the morgue? Without demanding to see my face?”

“I was drowning, Elena!” he choked out, pressing his forehead against the door. “My father had just been assassinated three days before. The syndicates were attacking every territory we owned. I was fighting a war on five fronts, bleeding from two gunshot wounds under my suit! I came to that hospital out of my mind with grief, and when Sophia said you were gone, my mind snapped.”

“You still went home with her, Vincent,” I said, tears of old agony threatening to spill over my eyelashes. “You chose the empire over me. You chose the bloodshed over holding your daughter’s hand. Even if Sophia lied about the death, you left me alone in that labor room long before any records were forged!”

“I know,” he sobbed, the sound raw and horrifying coming from a man of his stature. “I know I’m damned. I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't deserve your mercy. But she is my daughter, Elena. Please... let me protect you. Cassani knows who she is. His men are moving.”