THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME WIPE SPILLED SOUP FROM HIS 81-YEAR-OLD FATHER'S DINNER JACKET—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “HE KNOCKED THE BOWL OVER HIMSELF,” BEFORE HE EVEN ASKED WHY THE OLD MAN WAS SITTING ALONE AT THE END OF THE TABLE

The words hung in the damp air of the warehouse, freezing everyone in place.

Gabriel stared at my mother.

"What did you just say?"

"I'm sorry, Gabriel," my mother whispered, her eyes full of sorrow. "Eleanor told me the truth the night she died. She left the proof locked in her study, hoping Vincent would show it to you when you were ready."

Gabriel turned slowly toward his father.

Vincent wouldn't meet his eyes. The old man leaned heavily on his cane, staring at the floor.

"Dad?" Gabriel's voice cracked. The powerful, unshakable mafia boss suddenly looked like a lost child. "Is it true?"

Vincent nodded, a single tear falling onto the concrete.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Gabriel asked, the betrayal clear in his voice.

"Because you are my son," Vincent said fiercely, finally looking up. "Blood or no blood, you are my son. Eleanor loved you more than life itself. She didn't want you to feel like you didn't belong."

Gabriel ran a hand through his wet hair, pacing a few steps away. The revelation was too massive, too sudden.

Leo reached out from his wheelchair, catching Gabriel's sleeve.

"Gabriel," Leo said softly. "You're my brother. That never changes."

Gabriel looked down at Leo, then at little Elijah. The tension in his shoulders slowly released. He gripped Leo's hand tightly.

"I know," Gabriel said.

He turned to me.

"Claire, give me the key."

I hesitated. "Sir, this is a family matter. I shouldn't—"

"You're already part of this," he interrupted softly. "Your mother saved my brother. You saved my father tonight. Please."

I nodded.

We walked up the stairs in silence.

At the end of the long, portrait-lined hallway stood heavy oak double doors.

Gabriel slid the golden key into the lock. It turned with a heavy click.

He pushed the doors open and reached for the light switch.

The room was perfectly preserved.

Dust sheets covered the furniture, but the walls were lined with thousands of books. In the center of the room sat an elegant mahogany desk.

Above the fireplace hung a stunning painting of Eleanor Romano. She had Gabriel's dark hair, but her eyes were a piercing green.

Gabriel’s eyes are brown.

Gabriel walked over to the desk.

He opened the top drawer.

Inside, sitting alone on the velvet lining, was a sealed white envelope.

Gabriel picked it up. His hands trembled slightly as he broke the wax seal.

He pulled out two sheets of paper.

The first was a birth certificate.

I stood beside him, looking over his shoulder.

The name on the certificate was Gabriel. But the mother's name wasn't Eleanor Romano.

It read: Sofia Rossi.

Reversal.

"Sofia Rossi," Gabriel whispered. "Marcus's wife."

My jaw dropped.

Marcus's wife had died in childbirth forty-two years ago. Everyone in the family knew the tragic story.

"I'm Marcus's biological son?" Gabriel said, stumbling backward into a leather chair. The color drained from his face. "The man who tried to kill my father... who tortured my brother... is my father?"

I didn't know what to say. I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to offer some small comfort.

He unfolded the second piece of paper. It was a letter written in Eleanor's elegant handwriting.

Gabriel read it aloud, his voice shaking.

"My dearest Gabriel. If you are reading this, it means I am gone, and the truth could no longer be hidden. When Sofia died bringing you into the world, Marcus rejected you. He blamed you for her death. He was going to leave you at an orphanage. Vincent and I couldn't allow it. We had been trying for a child for years with no success. We took you in. We raised you as our own. Two years later, by a miracle, Leo was born. But you were my first miracle, Gabriel. Never doubt that you are a Romano. You are not your uncle's son. You are ours."

Gabriel lowered the letter.

Tears slipped down his face.

"He was going to throw me away," Gabriel whispered.

"But they didn't," I said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "They chose you."

Gabriel looked up at me. The vulnerability in his eyes was heartbreaking.

For a moment, the space between us seemed to vanish. He reached up and covered my hand with his.

"Thank you, Claire," he murmured.

Before I could reply, the heavy oak doors banged open.

We spun around.

Standing in the doorway was Uncle Marcus.

His face was bloodied, his hands zip-tied in front of him, but he had a feral, triumphant grin on his face.

Behind him stood Anthony, looking terrified, with a gun pressed to his own temple by one of Marcus's men.