The Mafia Boss’s Triplets Had Never Spoken Until They Pointed at a Waitress and Called Her Mom

The old Marcone winery in Elgin had been abandoned since the prohibition era, a massive brick structure hidden deep within a valley of dead grapevines and overgrown weeds. The windows were boarded up, but a faint light flickered from the basement level, casting long, monstrous shadows across the cracked concrete courtyard.

Roman and Pamela stood behind the shelter of a rusted delivery truck, watching the two guards posted at the main entrance. The rain had finally stopped, replaced by a thick, suffocating fog that rolled off the surrounding fields.

"Donovan’s crew will take the back," Roman whispered, his hand resting gently on the small of Pamela’s back. He was wearing his full tactical gear again, but he had given her a small, lightweight pistol and a heavy Kevlar vest under her coat. "When the shooting starts, you stay behind me. Understood?"

"I'm not going to hide, Roman," Pamela said, her eyes fixed on the entrance. "But I won't be stupid either."

Roman looked at her, his gray-blue eyes softening for a brief second in the dark. He reached up, his fingers brushing against her neck before leaning down to press his lips against her forehead. "For the kids," he murmured.

"For the kids," she agreed.

Pop. Pop.

The muffled sounds of Donovan’s silenced rifles echoed from the rear of the building. The two guards at the front door instantly turned, their radios buzzing with static. Before they could raise their weapons, Roman stepped out from behind the truck and fired twice, his shots hitting them dead in the chest.

They cleared the entrance in three strides, moving down a narrow, damp staircase into the bowels of the winery. The smell of old wine, rot, and copper was overwhelming.

At the end of the corridor, a heavy steel door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the sound of loud, angry voices echoed through the concrete space.

"The commission isn't going to wait, Lorenzo!" a panicked voice cried out—the unmistakable tone of Dr. Arthur Vance. "The Castello crew already hit my clinic in Gold Coast! They know! If Roman finds me here—"

"Shut up, old man," a sharp, arrogant voice interrupted—Lorenzo Marcone. He was a younger version of his father, with greasy dark hair, an expensive silk shirt, and a face that had never known a hard day's work. He sat at a wooden table, flipping through a thick leather folder containing Pamela’s original medical files. "Roman’s done. Once I show the captains these DNA profiles and the surrogacy contracts, they’ll vote him out by noon. He won't have an army left to hunt you."

"He won't need an army," Roman said, kicking the steel door completely open.

Lorenzo jumped up from his chair, reaching for a pistol on the table, but Roman was faster. A single shot from Roman’s weapon shattered Lorenzo’s hand, sending the gun clattering across the floor along with a spray of blood. Lorenzo screamed, falling back against the wall, clutching his ruined fingers.

Dr. Vance fell to his knees, his hands raised in terror. "Roman! Please! I was just the doctor! Lorenzo paid me two million dollars to fake the stillborn records! He said he’d kill my family if I didn't do it!"

Pamela stepped into the room, her eyes locking onto the leather folder on the table. She walked past the bleeding Lorenzo, her hands trembling as she picked up the documents. She opened it, her eyes tracking her own signature, the tiny footprints of her newborn babies, and the forged death certificates signed by the man cowering on the floor.

"You told me they died," Pamela whispered, her voice shaking with an ancient, devastating fury as she looked down at Dr. Vance. "I asked you if I could hold them. Just once. And you told me there was nothing left to hold."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" Vance sobbed, pressing his forehead against the bloody concrete.

Pamela raised her gun, her finger tightening on the trigger as fourteen months of agony, sleepless nights, and grief-stained tears boiled over into a single, lethal instinct.

Roman stepped up behind her, his large hand gently wrapping over hers, his thumb sliding over the safety lock, preventing the weapon from discharging. He pulled her back against his chest, his chin resting against her shoulder.

"Don't, Pamela," Roman whispered, his voice incredibly gentle, entirely stripped of the mafia boss's malice. "Don't let his blood stain the hands that hold our children. He’s not worth it."

Pamela let out a ragged sob, her shoulders shaking as she let Roman lower the gun. She turned and buried her face in his neck, the leather folder clutched tightly against her chest. She had the truth. She had her babies. The nightmare was finally over.