Chapter 4

Alexander Russo

The engine purred as the car slipped into motion, tires humming against asphalt. I didn’t waste a second. Antonio answered on the first ring.

“Get everyone to the meeting room. Now. And drag Dante out of whatever bar he’s in. I don’t care if he’s piss drunk—sober him up.”

He must’ve heard something in my voice—urgency laced with a hint of fear. That’s all it took. Orders were already being followed before I hit the gates of the estate.

Thirty minutes later, I walked through the front doors of our home and bypassed the lavish hall. No greetings. No stops. Straight to the meeting room. Silence met me like a wall as I entered.

I blinked.

Dante—clear-eyed. Sober. Ready.

That was... unexpected.

“What’s going on, Dad?” Ezaikel, the youngest, leaned forward, brows knit. The room tensed, five sons locked in and alert.

Respect. It was the first thing I taught them. In the world we live in—the Mafia world—power means nothing without it. Respect is currency. But family? That’s blood. Sacred. Unshakable. We live by one rule: Prima la Familia.

I exhaled slowly. “I got a call from the D.C. police. They have someone... someone important.”

Chairs shifted. Every eye stayed on me.

“Isabella,” I said. “She died seven years ago. Brain tumor, or so we were told.”

The air shifted. Faces fell. Pain flickered—but only for a second—before the practiced coldness of survival took over. We’ve all worn that mask far too long.

“She changed her name. Mirael. Lived in D.C. with some bastard named Damon. He had a new wife within a week of her death.”

I felt bile rise. My throat constricted. That kind of betrayal... it was enough to kill a man from the inside out.

My boys winced. Isabella was more than a mother to them—she was warmth in a world that offered none. When she disappeared, Dante was ten. The twins, Antonio and Xander, were eight. Vincent and Ezaikel—barely six. She left, and so did their childhood.

“And?” Dante asked. There was a strange edge to his voice. Curious. Almost... expectant.

My heart trembled.

“Someone’s waiting for me,” I said, eyes focused on the past playing behind my eyelids.

“Who?” Vincent asked. His voice was sharp, too eager.

I swallowed.

“My daughter. My principessa.”

Chaos. Four voices collided in disbelief.

“What?!”

But Dante... Dante didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His silence said everything. He knew. Somehow, he already knew.

“She was pregnant when she left. Three or four months along,” I continued. “She gave birth in secret. And now... now I’m going to see her. Xander’s coming with me. We leave in twenty.”

Xander gave a sharp nod. Ezaikel groaned dramatically.

“At least tell us her name!”

I chuckled—something soft, cracked around the edges.

“Mirabella Alexander Russo.”

The name echoed.

I handed my phone to Dante. One by one, the boys gathered behind him. The photo on screen—her sleeping face, peaceful, unaware of the chaos she was about to inherit—made their expressions soften.

Vincent beamed. “That’s our baby sister. Damn, I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

Dante, though, stared too long. His brows furrowed.

“Who the hell took this picture while she was sleeping?” His voice was tight, low. “Find out. Rip his damn head off.”

Murmurs of agreement followed. Fierce protectiveness. The Russo blood ran deep.

She was already theirs.

---

Private Jet – En Route to D.C.

The hum of the jet filled the silence as we cruised through dark skies. My fingers gripped the armrest tight enough to turn them white.

Xander reached over, covering my hand with his.

“Dad. You’re going to scare her looking like that.”

I let out a shaky breath.

“I’m terrified, son. What if... what if she wants nothing to do with me? What if she blames me? For not finding her. For not trying harder. I missed her whole life.”

Pain clawed at my insides. It hadn’t hurt this much since Isabella was shot while carrying Dante. That same cold fear crawled into my chest.

Xander didn’t flinch.

“She’s not used to us either. But we don’t need her to love us today. We just need her to see us. To know we’re here now.”

I nodded. That had to be enough. For now.

---

Mirabella

Puto stirred in my arms, his tiny body warm against mine. I rubbed his ears, humming softly as I gave him his meds.

“They’re coming, you know.”

His words—calm, quiet—carried more weight than I wanted to admit.

“Are you happy?” he asked. Then, softer—“Are you going to leave me?”

I froze.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I whispered. “I’ve never met him. But if I go... you come with me. No matter what.”

He said nothing. But he nestled closer.

Outside, the sky had turned violet with nightfall. The hospital room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp. My bag sat half-packed near the chair.

At exactly 8:00 p.m., a soft knock preceded a uniformed officer stepping inside.

“Miss Russo,” he said gently. “Your father and brother are here.”