The Mafia Boss Searched Everywhere for His Pregnant Wife Who Walked Away

The radiator in the hallway of her mother’s apartment building clanked like a skeleton rattling its bones inside a tin box.

Isabella stood in the narrow kitchen, her fingers resting against the chipped formica counter, trying to steady her breathing.

Her mother, Clara, sat at the small kitchen table wrapped in a faded quilt, her gray hair pulled back in a loose clip.

"He didn't call?" Clara asked softly, stirring a cup of chamomile tea.

"No," Isabella whispered.

"Good."

Isabella turned, blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill over her lashes. "Mom, he’s my husband. We have a baby coming in five weeks."

"A husband doesn't stand under a chandelier with another woman while a termination clause for his marriage sits on the table," Clara said, her voice steady, hardened by thirty years of surviving in a city where men like the Morettis wrote the rules. "You did the right thing walking out, Bella. Pride is all a woman has left when a powerful man decides she’s inconvenient."

Isabella looked down at her left hand.

The finger felt light. Naked. Cold.

For three years, she had believed that love could soften the edges of a syndicate empire. She had believed that Adrien’s midnight phone calls, the armed guards at the gates, and the whispered rumors in the city were just background noise to a normal marriage.

Tonight, she realized the background noise was the only reality that mattered.

A sharp knock rattled the apartment door.

Both women froze.

Clara set her teacup down so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim. "At this hour? Nobody knows you're here."

Isabella’s heart hammered against her ribs.

The knock came again. Louder. More insistent.

"Isabella!" a familiar voice called through the heavy oak door. "Open up. It’s Marcus."

Isabella exhaled a shaky breath, stepping past the hallway rug and sliding the brass chain off the lock. She pulled the door open.

Marcus Bennett stood in the dim overhead light of the stairwell, his trench coat soaked with rain, his usually immaculate hair plastered to his forehead.

"Marcus? What are you doing here?"

"I had to get out of the estate before Adrien turned the place upside down," Marcus said, stepping inside quickly and closing the door behind him. "Listen to me, Isabella. You need to pack a bag. Right now."

Clara stood up from the table, her eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? Who's looking for her?"

"Everyone," Marcus said, running a hand over his face. "Adrien is tearing the city apart. He threw Vanessa out ten minutes after you left. He knows the contract was forged. He knows her father tried to push that clause through using a digital copy of his signature."

Isabella crossed her arms over her swollen stomach, a cold dread washing over her. "I don't care about the contract, Marcus. I left my ring on the table. We're done."

"You don't understand," Marcus urged, stepping closer. "The Sinclair family isn't going to let this go quietly. They lost the shipping contract, and Vanessa lost her shot at the throne. They know Adrien is looking for you. If they find you before he does, they'll use you as leverage to force him back to the table."

Before Isabella could answer, a low rumble vibrated through the floorboards of the building.

The distinct, heavy purr of a custom Mercedes engine idling outside in the alley.

Marcus rushed to the window, pulling the cracked vinyl blind back an inch.

Two black sedans had just blocked both ends of the narrow street.