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THE MAFIA BOSS’S TRIPLETS HAD NEVER SPOKEN UNTIL A WAITRESS WALKED PAST THEIR TABLE AND THEY CALLED HER MOM / Chapter 3 / 6

Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Vault

"I didn't know," Roman said.

They were sitting in his private study. The triplets had finally fallen into a deep, peaceful sleep, but only after Pamela had sat on the floor of their nursery for an hour, humming a soft lullaby while they held onto the hem of her stained apron. She refused to take it off; it felt like the only anchor keeping her grounded in reality.

Roman poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a crystal glass but didn't drink it. "Isabella was desperate for heirs. In my world, a boss without a bloodline is a boss with a target on his back. My uncle, Viktor Voss, was already moving to replace me. Then, miraculously, Isabella announced she found a specialized clinic in Europe. She left for nine months. She returned with three healthy infants."

"And you never questioned it?" Pamela asked, bitterness bleeding into her voice. "You're the most feared man in Chicago, and you didn't check where your own children came from?"

Roman’s eyes flashed with a lethal coldness, but it softened when he looked at her exhaustion. "I checked the medical papers. They were ironclad. Or so I thought. Isabella’s father was the Chief of Surgery at St. Anselm. Dr. Arthur Vance."

Pamela’s breath caught. "Dr. Vance… he was the one who signed my discharge papers. He told me he was deeply sorry for my loss."

"He didn't just sign them. He orchestrated it," Roman said, slamming his glass onto the desk. "My late wife didn't go to Europe, Pamela. She stayed in a private, unregistered wing of St. Anselm, waiting for a woman with the perfect genetic profile and no powerful family to protect her. You were targeted the day you walked into that clinic for your first prenatal checkup."

Before Pamela could process the horror, the heavy mahogany doors of the study burst open. Donovan rushed in, his face pale, a tablet tightly clutched in his hand.

"Boss, we have a problem," Donovan said, looking nervously at Pamela. "We went to secure Dr. Vance at his estate in Lincoln Park. We were too late."

Roman stood up instantly. "Is he dead?"

"Worse," Donovan said, turning the screen toward Roman. "He was taken. Security footage shows a black van with no plates pulling him out of his house twenty minutes ago. But that's not all. The intruders left a message on his security monitor. It was routed directly to our private network."

Roman grabbed the tablet. Pamela stood up, leaning over his shoulder.

On the screen, a video played. Dr. Vance was tied to a chair, bleeding from his nose, weeping into the camera. A man standing in the shadows behind him, wearing a tailored Italian suit, stepped into the light.

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

It was Viktor Voss—Roman’s uncle.

"Hello, nephew," Viktor smiled, his voice oozing malice. "I see your little bastards finally spoke. And I see they recognize their real mother. Did you really think you could keep this little secret hidden? If the Commission finds out you bought stolen children to secure your seat, you're done. Bring the girl to the old shipping yard on Pier 4 by sunrise. Or the doctor dies, and the entire city finds out the Voss bloodline is built on a lie."

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