My Mafia stepbrother’s Secret Kids

Isabella DeLuca had spent six years running.

Six years building a life far away from the bloodstained streets of New York. Six years pretending that the past was nothing more than a bad dream.

She had almost convinced herself it was true—until tonight.

Until she stepped foot back in the city she swore she’d never return to, her heart pounding against her ribs like a war drum.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and uncertainty, the fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows against the pristine white walls. A chill slithered down her spine as she gripped her son’s tiny hand tighter, trying to will away the fear clawing at her throat.

“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” she murmured, forcing a smile as she brushed Matteo’s curls away from his clammy forehead.

At five years old, her eldest triplet was too perceptive for his own good. His dark blue eyes—so much like his father’s—narrowed up at her, studying her with a seriousness no child should possess.

“You’re lying, Mama.” His voice was small but firm. “You always smile like that when you’re scared.”

Isabella swallowed past the lump in her throat.

She had never been good at lying to her children.

Taking a deep breath, she crouched to his level, her hands cradling his fevered cheeks.

“I know this is scary,” she whispered. “But the doctors here are the best. They’re going to help you, and we’ll be home before you know it.”

Matteo didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway, exhaustion weighing down his small body.

Beside them, his younger twin, Luca, shifted impatiently, his little hands stuffed into his pockets. Unlike his brother, Luca had never been one to overthink things. He was fearless—wild, even. But tonight, even he was subdued, his usual boundless energy dimmed by worry.

“Can we get ice cream after?” Luca asked, his voice hopeful. “I wanna get the one with sprinkles.”

A soft chuckle escaped Isabella’s lips. “If you behave, you can have all the sprinkles you want.”

From behind, a small voice piped up. “I want chocolate.”

Sofia, the youngest of the triplets and the only girl, stood with her arms crossed, her expression eerily similar to the one Isabella used to give her father when he was being stubborn.

“We are not going anywhere until Matteo is okay,” she declared, ever the little leader. “And Mama, you should stop looking over your shoulder. No one followed us.”

Isabella’s stomach clenched.

Her daughter was too observant.

Too much like him.

For six years, Isabella had been careful. She had changed her name, moved across countries, ensured there was never a trace of her or the children left behind.

But coming back to New York? It was a risk she hadn’t wanted to take.

Yet, when Matteo’s health took a turn for the worse, there had been no choice.

New York had the best specialists.

And now, here she was—standing in the heart of the city she once called home, praying she wouldn’t run into the one man who could ruin everything.

Praying that Lorenzo Moretti never found out about the secret she had been keeping from him.

✦✦✦

But fate was never that kind.

Lorenzo Moretti did not believe in coincidences.

He believed in control. In power. In knowing everything that happened in his city.

So when his men informed him that Isabella DeLuca had been spotted at a hospital in Manhattan, he had wasted no time.

For six years, she had been nothing but a ghost. A whisper in the wind.

Gone.

He had torn the city apart looking for her, had searched everywhere, but she had vanished without a trace.

And now, just like that—she was back.

Rage and something dangerously close to relief burned through his veins as he stepped into the hospital, his sharp eyes scanning the halls.

She had run from him.

She had left him.

And now she would answer for it.

The moment he saw her, the world tilted.

She was standing at the nurses’ station, her back to him, her long, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

He hadn’t seen her in years, but he would have recognized her anywhere.

The way she held herself. The delicate curve of her spine. The way her fingers tapped anxiously against the counter, a nervous habit she had never broken.

Something primal and furious curled in his chest.

His woman.

She had run from him. She had disappeared.

And she had been carrying his children when she did it.

Because standing beside her, clinging to her hand, were three small children.

Triplets.

And every single one of them looked like him.

Lorenzo’s vision went red.

“Isabella.”

Her entire body went rigid.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned.

The moment their eyes met, time stopped.

He watched her breath hitch, watched the color drain from her face.

She knows.

She knows she’s been caught.

She knows there’s no running this time.

But what infuriated him the most—what nearly made him snap—was the way she instinctively pulled the children behind her, as if he was the threat.

As if he would ever hurt them.

His jaw clenched. His fists curled.

“You’ve been keeping secrets, Bella.” His voice was dangerously soft. “And I don’t take kindly to being lied to.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Guilt. Panic. Fear. It was all there, written in her wide eyes.

Lorenzo took a step forward.

Isabella took a step back.

“We’re not doing this here,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Not in front of them.”

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked to the children. His children.

Triplets.

Two boys. One girl.

His blood. His legacy.

A sharp, possessive protectiveness roared inside him.

They were his.

And she had stolen them from him.

His jaw flexed as he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay calm.

There would be a reckoning.

There would be consequences.

But she was right. Not here. Not now.

He leveled her with a look that sent ice down her spine. “Then start talking, Isabella.”

“Because after six years, you owe me one hell of an explanation.”

Isabella’s breath came in short, shallow bursts.

The weight of Lorenzo Moretti’s gaze burned into her, pinning her in place like a predator cornering its prey.

She hadn’t prepared for this.

She had spent six years crafting a life away from him, shielding her children from the world he ruled with an iron fist. Yet here she was, standing in the heart of his city, and there was no escaping this time.

Lorenzo took a slow, deliberate step forward.

Isabella instinctively tightened her grip on her children, pulling them closer to her body. A mother’s instinct. A desperate need to protect.

His jaw clenched at the motion. His blue eyes—so cold, so calculating—darkened with something she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Who are you?”

The small, innocent voice shattered the silence between them.

Sofia.

Her tiny frame barely reached Isabella’s hip, yet she stared up at the towering man before her with defiant curiosity.

Isabella’s stoma