‘Take Nothing of Mine,’ the Mafia Boss Ordered – Unaware She Carried the One Thing He Could Not…

Because somewhere over Chicago, a private jet was…

Because somewhere over Chicago, a private jet was already being fueled.

PART 3 — Matteo crossed a thousand miles and kicked down my door.

I had Leo’s winter coats, passports, cash, and dinosaur pajamas stuffed into one canvas bag when the bakery door downstairs exploded inward.

Leo looked at me.

“Was that bad?”

“Very.”

I grabbed my phone.

No signal.

Of course.

Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs.

I pushed Leo behind me and picked up the brass lamp beside my bed.

The apartment door flew open.

Matteo stood there.

Five years had sharpened him.

More gray at his temples.

A scar near his jaw.

A charcoal coat that probably cost more than my first car.

But his eyes?

Same eyes.

They hit me first.

Then they found Leo.

Matteo stopped breathing.

Leo peeked around my hip.

“Who are you?”

The man half of Chicago feared looked like somebody had punched him in the chest.

He slowly sank to one knee.

“I’m…”

“No,” I said.

His eyes lifted to mine.

“Hazel.”

“Don’t.”

Leo frowned.

Matteo tried again.

“I’m your father.”

I dropped the lamp so hard it cracked the floor.

“You don’t get to say that.”

Matteo stood.

“He is my son.”

“He is not property.”

“He has my blood.”

“And I carried him. Fed him. Sat beside his hospital bed when he had pneumonia. Worked until my feet were swollen so he had health insurance.”

Matteo’s face tightened.

“You should have told me.”

I laughed right in his face.

“You told me I was convenient.”

“That night—”

“You told me to take nothing of yours.”

His eyes dropped toward Leo.

Pain flashed across his face.

“Apparently you did.”

I stepped forward.

“You want access to him? You go through my lawyer.”

“I did not fly a thousand miles to negotiate with some small-town attorney.”

“Then fly home.”

That was when a metallic crash came from downstairs.

Matteo turned.

His entire body changed.

“Get Leo.”

A second later, gunfire tore through the bakery ceiling.

And the war Matteo brought with him came straight into my son’s bedroom.

PART 4 — Bullets destroyed my home, but Matteo took the first hit.

Matteo shoved us into the bathroom.

Plaster burst from the hallway wall.

Leo screamed.

I pulled him into the bathtub and covered his head with my body.

“You brought them here!” I yelled.

“I know.”

Matteo sounded furious.

At himself.

That surprised me.

He drew his weapon and moved toward the doorway.

More shots.

Then sirens in the distance.

Somebody downstairs shouted.

Matteo fired back.

A second later he jerked violently and slammed against the wall.

Blood spread across his shoulder.

“Damn it.”

Leo screamed, “Mom!”

I should have hated Matteo enough to let him sit there.

Instead I grabbed a white towel.

Human reflex.

Stupid heart.

Call it whatever you want.

I pressed the towel against his shoulder.

He hissed.

“Hold still.”

“You still boss everyone around.”

“You’re bleeding on my bathroom floor.”

“I’ll buy you another one.”

“You’re not buying me anything.”

That almost made him smile.

Almost.

Police sirens grew louder.

Matteo grabbed my wrist.

Not violently this time.

Desperately.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“If this is about Leo—”

“Caleb is alive.”

My hand stopped.

The entire room went silent inside my head.

“What?”

“Your brother.”

I stared at him.

“No.”

“He’s alive.”

“You told me—”

“I lied.”

Five years of grief hit me at once.

Christmases.

Birthdays.

Nights I had cried quietly after Leo fell asleep.

All of it.

Matteo swallowed.

“I sent Caleb away. Rehab first. Switzerland later.”