Chapter 3

Mirabella

The words kept echoing in my head long after he walked away.

Father.

A word that never belonged to my life until now. Where had he been? Why did my mother leave him? Or was it him who abandoned her? Did he even know about me? The ache in my chest was almost unbearable, twisting with every new question that raced through my mind.

Brothers? I had brothers?

A family I never knew. Would they even want me? Would they accept a sister who appeared out of nowhere after so many years? Or would they reject me like Damon did? What if they tried to take Peter away? What if they saw him as nothing more than a burden or a stray?

The thought made my head pound. My eyes burned as I leaned back against the cold metal chair, squeezing Puto tighter. My breathing was uneven, shallow.

No. If they won’t let me bring Puto, I won’t go at all.

---

Alexander Russo

The steady scratch of my pen across the contract was the only sound in the office. I reviewed the final page and signed my name with a flourish, leaning back in my chair with a small sigh. The bourbon burned my throat pleasantly as I took a sip. Another deal closed.

My moment of quiet was broken when my secretary’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“Sir, Aaron Romano is here.”

I frowned. Unexpected. But I waved him in.

The door opened and Aaron, my long best friend stepped inside. We exchanged brief nods — mutual respect, unspoken words. Before he could speak, my phone buzzed sharply on the desk. The screen lit up: DC Police Department.

I nearly ignored it, but something tugged at me — instinct. I picked up.

“Russo.”

There was a slight hesitation on the other end.

“S-Sir… is this Alexander Russo?”

The stammering voice reeked of fear. Everyone feared me. Except my family.

“Yes,” I answered coldly, my patience already thinning. “What is it?”

The officer stumbled over his words. “Sir, we have your daughter here. The DNA results confirmed she’s yours. Her stepmother was murdered by her stepfather. She has no legal guardian. If you don’t take custody, she’ll be placed into foster care.”

Time stopped.

Daughter?

My brain refused to process the words. I was certain—certain—I had no daughter. I’d undergone a vasectomy after my wife left. No slip-ups, no mistakes. This was impossible.

“You’re mistaken,” I said flatly. “I have no daughter.”

But he continued, desperate. “Sir, her mother is listed as Isabella Russo.”

Her name landed like a punch to my gut.

Isabella.

Seventeen years had passed since anyone dared speak her name. Seventeen years since she vanished.

“Yes,” I admitted, my voice quieter now. “That’s my wife’s name.”

The officer’s voice steadied. “Sir, she delivered the baby approximately five months after disappearing. The hospital confirmed everything.”

My hand gripped the phone tighter as my mind spiraled.

She ran away pregnant? Without telling me? After everything… after the years we spent together… after how much I wanted a daughter. She stole those moments from me — her birth, her first words, her first steps.

I swallowed hard. “Send me her picture. What’s her name?”

“Mirabella Alexander Russo.”

The moment I heard it, memories came flooding back like a dam bursting.

---

Flashback

The bedroom was dimly lit as Isabella lay in my arms, her head resting on my chest. The air was warm with quiet intimacy, a rare moment away from the chaos our sons brought into our lives.

“I hope it’s a girl this time,” I whispered.

She smirked and playfully pinched my chest. “Alexander, you’re impossible. You already cursed me with five of your devils.”

I chuckled, pulling her closer. “Not until we have a princess.”

She rolled her eyes. “If we have a girl, what will we name her?”

I thought for a long moment. A daughter would be a miracle after so many sons. A blessing. A small piece of both of us.

“Mirabella,” I finally whispered. “Like a miracle. And we’ll add my name, so everyone knows whose daughter she is.”

She smiled and whispered it softly against my skin. “Mirabella Alexander Russo.”

---

Present

“Mirabella Alexander Russo...” I repeated the name under my breath.

The officer’s voice pulled me back. “Sir? Are you still there?”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’ll come for her. Prepare the papers. I’m flying in from New York.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended. The silence in the room was deafening. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the phone down, my thoughts a hurricane of betrayal, anger, and heartbreak. Isabella—my Isabella—hid my daughter from me for seventeen years.

I barely noticed as the rage boiled over. My vision went red. I slammed my fist into the center table, flipping it in a single violent motion. Glass shattered and scattered across the polished floor.

Aaron walked forward, his face alarmed.

“Alexander—what the hell happened?”

I didn’t answer him.

My phone buzzed again with an incoming email — the officer had sent the photo.

I hesitated before opening it.

And then… there she was.

She was beautiful.

A teenager, delicate and pale, with soft blonde hair that fell across her face as she slept. Her features were familiar — my chin, my nose, her mother’s lips. She clutched a small pink dolphin plushie to her chest, identical to the one I once bought on a whim, dreaming of my little girl. The same one still sitting untouched in the back of my closet.

My heart twisted painfully. She looked underweight. Fragile. Was she sick? Starving? Poor? My mind spiraled into the worst scenarios.

But all I saw was my daughter.

There was no doubt.

She was mine.

Without another word, I stormed past Aaron toward the elevator.

“I need to leave immediately.”

Aaron called after me, but I didn’t slow. I was already dialing.

Xander,my second oldest answered on the second ring. “Dad?”

“Get the jet ready. We’re flying to Washington D.C. We’re bringing someone very important home.”