The Mafia Boss Froze Seeing His Heavily Pregnant Ex-Wife Working Alone at a Restaurant

By midday, the fog around the manor had burned away under a pale, watery sun.

Delphine insisted on having her IV line removed.

Her dehydration was corrected, her blood pressure was stable, and the suffocating feeling of being tethered to a hospital pole in Sloan’s bedroom was driving her mad.

Against the objections of Dr. Vance, Delphine pulled on a thick cashmere cardigan Mrs. Gable had brought her and walked slowly down the west corridor toward the guest wing.

Two armed guards followed her at a discreet distance of six paces.

They were silent, shadows in black suits, their hands hovering near their armpits.

Delphine ignored them.

She opened the heavy double doors of the private medical suite at the end of the hall.

The room had been transformed into an elite, private intensive care unit.

Monitors hummed quietly.

Oxygen tanks stood secured against the wall.

In the center of the room, propped up against a mountain of pillows, lay Cora Marchetti.

The nineteen-year-old girl looked fragile, her olive skin pale and bruised under the harsh fluorescent examination lights.

A neat, sterile dressing was taped securely over the small surgical opening in her throat.

Her eyes, the same piercing steel-gray as her brother’s, were wide and staring out the window at the gardens.

When the door clicked open, Cora turned her head slowly.

Her eyes locked onto Delphine.

A sudden wave of emotion washed over the young girl’s face.

Delphine stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and shutting out the armed guards.

“Hello, Cora,” Delphine said gently, her voice soft and maternal.

Tears immediately welled in Cora’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

She tried to speak, but only a dry, whistling breath escaped her damaged throat.

“Shh, don’t try to talk,” Delphine commanded softly, walking over to the side of the bed.

“Your vocal cords suffered severe trauma from the edema and the emergency airway.”

“If you force sound right now, you could tear the mucosa and cause permanent scar tissue.”

Delphine picked up a small plastic cup of ice chips from the bedside stand and offered a tiny spoonful to Cora’s parched lips.

Cora accepted the ice gratefully, closing her eyes as the cold moisture soothed her burning throat.

The girl reached out with a trembling hand, grabbing Delphine’s wrist tightly.

Her grip was surprisingly desperate.

Cora reached over to the bedside table with her free hand, fumbling for a pad of paper and a black pen.

With shaking fingers, she began scribbling on the paper.

Delphine watched the pen move.

‘I thought I was dead,’ Cora wrote, her handwriting jagged and uneven.

‘I couldn’t breathe. Everything went black.’

Delphine reached out and brushed a stray lock of dark hair behind Cora’s ear.

“I know, sweetie,” Delphine murmured.

“You were in acute respiratory arrest.”

“It was terrifying.”

“But you are safe now.”

“The airway is patent, and the swelling is going down.”

Cora looked down at the pad again, writing furiously.

‘Sloan said you came back.’

‘He said you saved my life with a knife.’

Delphine sighed, leaning against the bed rail.

“I didn’t plan on coming back, Cora,” Delphine admitted honestly.

“I was working at the restaurant.”

“When I saw you collapsing, I couldn’t just stand there and watch you die.”

“I took an oath as a nurse.”

Cora’s eyes dropped down to Delphine’s swollen stomach beneath the open cashmere sweater.

The girl’s mouth dropped open in shock.

She pointed a trembling finger at Delphine’s belly, her gray eyes wide with disbelief.

Cora quickly scribbled on the pad:

‘A baby?’

‘Is it Sloan’s?’

Delphine hesitated for a second before nodding slowly.

“Yes,” Delphine whispered.

“It’s Sloan’s.”

A faint, beautiful smile broke across Cora’s pale, bruised face.

Tears flowed freely down her cheeks as she reached out, placing her fragile palm against Delphine’s rounded stomach.

Beneath Cora’s fingers, the baby kicked, as if acknowledging the aunt who had almost died twelve hours earlier.

Cora let out a wet, choked laugh that turned into a painful cough.

“Easy,” Delphine warned, gently rubbing Cora’s upper back until the spasm passed.

Cora wiped her eyes and grabbed the pen again.

Her expression suddenly hardened, the naive teenager vanishing and replaced by the ruthless Marchetti lineage she carried in her veins.

She wrote three names on the paper.

‘The drink.’

‘Who gave it to me.’

Delphine’s entire body went tense.

“Who brought you that raspberry juice, Cora?” Delphine asked, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper.

“The waitress didn't pour that glass.”

“I was carrying the water carafe when it was already sitting on your coaster.”

Cora tapped the paper with the pen, her hand trembling with anger as she wrote:

‘Matteo’s driver brought the gift box to the VIP room before dinner.’

‘He said it was special artisan blackberry-raspberry cordial from Sicily.’

‘He said Matteo bought it for my nineteenth birthday.’

Delphine felt a cold chill run through her bones.

Matteo Marchetti.

Sloan’s first cousin and the commander of the syndicate’s northern waterfront operations.

It wasn't an anonymous hitman.

It wasn't a rival gang launching an external attack.

It was family.

Cora ripped the sheet of paper from the pad, her fingers digging into the paper until it tore at the margins.

‘He knew about my allergy,’ Cora wrote, underlining the words twice.

‘He gave me my first epi-pen when I was eight years old.’

‘He knew nuts would kill me.’

Delphine looked at the torn paper, her mind putting together the brutal reality of the underworld politics.

Matteo hadn't just tried to poison Cora.

He had disguised the murder weapon as a birthday gift from a loving cousin.

He had weaponized a teenage girl’s severe medical condition to orchestrate a corporate coup within the mafia hierarchy.

The heavy door of the medical suite swung open with sudden force.

Sloan stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the space like a radar.

He saw the paper clutched in Delphine’s hand.

He saw the tears on his sister’s cheeks.

“What is that?” Sloan demanded, his voice low, heavy, and dangerous.

Delphine stood up slowly from the bedside chair.

She walked over to Sloan and handed him the ripped sheet of paper.

Sloan took the paper.

His eyes scanned the jagged handwriting.

‘Matteo’s driver brought the gift box.’

‘Artisan cordial from Sicily.’

‘He knew nuts would kill me.’

For five agonizing seconds, Sloan did not move.

He did not shout.

He did not swear.

He simply stared at the handwriting of his nineteen-year-old sister who had barely survived a chemical execution ordered by his own flesh and blood.

The temperature in the room dropped below freezing.

A vein pulsed violently at Sloan’s left temple.

His jaw clenched until the bones creaked.

He folded the torn piece of paper with agonizing, deliberate precision, tucking it neatly into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket.

“Cora,” Sloan said, his voice flat, emotionless, and colder than a winter grave.

Cora looked up at her brother, nodding slowly with tears in her eyes.

“Rest,” Sloan said softly.

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

He turned his gaze toward Delphine.

“Delphine, come with me.”

Delphine stepped past him into the hallway, her heart pounding against her ribs.

“Sloan, what are you going to do?” she asked, hurrying to keep pace with his long, predatory strides.

Sloan did not look back.

“Matteo invited twenty capos to his private estate tonight for an ‘emergency briefing’ regarding the attack at the Copper Lantern,” Sloan said, every word dripping with lethal venom.

“He thinks I’m sitting by Cora’s deathbed, broken and powerless.”

“He thinks the throne is empty.”

Sloan stopped at the top of the grand marble staircase, looking down at Bishop and twenty heavily armed men waiting in full tactical gear in the foyer below.