I Noticed My Maid’s Son Had the Same Birthmark as Me—Then His Hospital Papers Listed Me as His Father.

Victor kicked through the front door of the cottage, weapon raised, Claire right behind him despite his orders to stay in the car.

The living room was quiet, smelling of burning pine wood and old tobacco.

Sitting in a worn leather armchair by the fireplace was little Eli. He had a thick wool blanket wrapped around his shoulders, holding a mug of warm hot chocolate with both hands.

"Mommy!" Eli cried out, dropping the mug onto the braided rug and running toward them.

Claire dropped to her knees, catching her son in her arms and burying her face into his neck, sobbing uncontrollably. "Eli! Oh God, Eli, are you okay? Did anyone hurt you?"

"No, Mommy," Eli whispered, sniffling against her shoulder. "The tall man gave me marshmallows. He said Daddy was coming to get us."

Victor lowered his weapon, his broad chest heaving as he stared at the boy. The heavy relief that washed over his rugged features was almost overwhelming.

From the shadows of the hallway leading to the kitchen, a man stepped into the firelight.

He was tall, broad-shouldered like Victor, but the left side of his face and neck bore deep, jagged burn scars. His hair was streaked with gray, but his dark, piercing eyes were undeniably Bellandi.

Marco.

"You took your time, little brother," Marco said, his voice raspy and scarred from smoke inhalation.

Victor stood frozen for three full seconds before stepping forward. The two brothers didn't exchange words. Victor pulled Marco into a fierce, bone-crushing embrace, the weight of eight years of grief and deception collapsing in an instant.

"They told me you were ashes," Victor breathed, pulling back to look at his brother's scarred face.

"The Morettis kept me locked in a basement in Boston for five years," Marco said quietly. "Arthur visited me every month. He told me you were the one who ordered the boat bomb so you could become Don."

Victor’s eyes widened with pure, unadulterated fury. "Arthur told you that?"

"Until three days ago," Marco continued, glancing toward Claire and Eli. "When Arthur came to this cottage with a set of forged adoption papers. He wanted me to sign over Marco Bellandi's estate to a trust fund that would strip you of the Don title the moment you married Celeste."

Victor shook his head in disgust. "Arthur is locked in my armory. Celeste is ruined. The Moretti alliance is dead."

"Good," Marco said, a faint, scarred smile touching his lips. "Because you're going to need every soldier you have for what's coming next."

Claire stood up, holding Eli firmly against her hip, Victor stepping beside them and placing a protective arm around both of their shoulders. For the first time in seven years, Claire felt safe. The immediate nightmare was over. Her son was safe, Victor had claimed them before the entire world, and the conspirators in the immediate circle had fallen.

Marco walked over to the wooden kitchen table and picked up a heavy, steel lockbox.

"Before Arthur left this cottage three days ago, I took his personal briefcase," Marco said, setting the box down in front of Victor. "Arthur didn't orchestrate my bombing eight years ago, Victor. He was too cowardly to pull that trigger."

Victor frowned. "Then who did?"

Marco pulled a worn, bloodstained manifest from the box and slid it across the table.

Victor looked down at the document. It was an offshore contract authorizing the hit on Marco’s boat eight years ago—signed and dated.

Victor’s eyes locked onto the signature at the bottom of the page.

It wasn't Arthur.