"I OWE HER MY LIFE, NOT MY LOVE!" — The Mafia Boss Abandoned His Paralyzed Wife For His Mistress, Unaware She Was Carrying His Heir… But When He Found Her Wedding Ring And A Secret Ultrasound, His Entire Empire Began To Burn!

The roar of twin turboshaft engines tore through the storm as an unmarked, military-grade Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter broke through the dense cloud cover, descending directly above the interstate.

The rotor wash was catastrophic, kicking up a whiteout blizzard of blinding snow and ice that threw Marco Rossi’s men off their feet. The blinding beam of a ten-million-candlepower searchlight locked onto Marco’s truck, bathing the highway in a terrifying, unnatural luminescence.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!" one of the Rossi gunmen screamed, shielding his eyes against the hurricane of freezing wind.

Before Marco could drop Isabella, the side door of the helicopter slid open mid-air, twenty feet above the asphalt.

A figure stepped out onto the skid.

Adrian Moretti didn't wait for a ladder. He didn't wait for the chopper to touch the ground.

He jumped.

He landed in the four-foot snowdrift with the heavy, bone-jarring impact of an executioner, rolling forward to absorb the shock, coming up onto one knee with an assault rifle already raised to his shoulder.

*RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!*

The controlled burst of armor-piercing rounds took down two of Rossi’s gunmen instantly, dropping them into the bloody snow. Adrian didn't take cover. He advanced through the blinding rotor wash like an invincible wraith, his eyes locked entirely on the man holding his wife.

"ROSSI!" Adrian’s roar rose above the howling storm and the thundering blades of the helicopter.

Marco panicked. He tossed Isabella violently into the snowbank, drawing his sidearm, attempting to use the hood of his truck as cover.

"KILL HIM! SHOOT HIM DOWN!" Marco shrieked.

The remaining two gunmen opened fire, bullets pinging off the asphalt and slicing through Adrian’s tactical vest. A round grazed Adrian’s shoulder, tearing through flesh, another slamming into his side, but the mafia boss didn't even flinch. The pain only seemed to feed the demonic fury burning behind his golden eyes.

Adrian fired three rounds into the chest of the third gunman, then discarded his empty rifle, drawing his dual handguns as he closed the gap. He caught the fourth gunman by the throat with his bare hand, snapping his windpipe against the bull-bar of the truck, letting the corpse collapse into the drift.

Marco scrambled backward, firing wildly. One of his rounds struck Adrian squarely in the chest plate, the kinetic impact staggering Adrian back a step.

Adrian looked down at the dented armor, then looked back up at Marco with a terrifying, blood-soaked grin.

"My turn," Adrian whispered.

In two terrifying strides, Adrian closed the distance. He slapped Marco’s gun from his hand with a brutal swipe that dislocated the older man's wrist, then drove his fist straight into Marco’s jaw. The sound of bone crunching was immediate.

Adrian grabbed Marco by his hair, dragging his face down onto his raised knee once, twice, three times, until the proud Don of the South Side was nothing more than a sobbing, broken heap of flesh, choking on his own teeth in the slush.

Adrian pulled his 1911 pistol, pressing the barrel against the center of Marco’s forehead.

"Adrian... wait..." Marco gurgled, his eyes rolling back in terror. "The docks... you can have the docks... don't kill me..."

"You laid your filthy hands on my wife," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a deathly whisper that cut through the whistling wind. "You threatened the life of my unborn child. There is no bargain in hell that saves you from me."

*BANG.*

Adrian pulled the trigger without an ounce of hesitation. Marco Rossi’s body slumped backward into the snow, his eyes staring blankly at the stormy sky.

The highway went silent, save for the thrumming blades of the hovering helicopter overhead and the whistle of the winter gale.

Luca and three Moretti soldiers rappelled down from the chopper, immediately securing Elena Vance, who was stirring weakly in the ditch, checking her pulse and shouting for medical kits.

Adrian turned around slowly.

His white shirt was torn and soaked in crimson—both his own and that of his enemies. Snow clung to his dark hair, melting against the feverish heat of his skin. The terrifying, monstrous aura that had just slaughtered five men vanished in an instant as his eyes landed on the snowbank twenty feet away.

Isabella lay there, shivering violently, her cashmere coat soaked through, her pale face framed by wet, dark curls. Her lips were blue from the bitter frost.

Adrian dropped his gun into the snow.

For the first time in his life, the Don of Chicago fell to his knees, crawling through the freezing slush toward her, his large hands trembling so violently he could barely open his fingers.