Left for Dead by the Mafia King I Loved

I married Rafe Maretti—the man who owned the Maretti Casino empire. Sophisticated, ruthless, but sinfully charming.

By year three of our marriage, I introduced my little sister to his nephew, Adam Moretti—twenty-five, all sharp smiles and sharper ambition.

He ran the dirtier side of the family’s business—arms, drugs, the kind of trade that dripped blood and money in equal parts.

I married the powerful, irresistible uncle. She married the young, dangerous nephew.

It was supposed to be our fairytale.

Then one day, I got kidnapped in Rafe’s casino.

Snatched by a rival mafia family desperate to force Rafe to sign over one of his biggest, most profitable casinos.

Except Rafe didn’t answer the phone or even notice I was gone.

The kidnappers grew impatient. First, it was slaps. Then punches. Then they shattered my leg and buried a knife in my stomach.

Still no word from my husband.

Until finally, after what felt like a hundred unanswered calls, a single message came through.

"I’m with Bianca. She’s having a stomach. Stop calling."

Once the kidnappers realized I had no value, they dumped me in a rotting warehouse like discarded luggage.

It was Isla, my sister, who found me. She got me out.

And then the brakes failed. The car spun out. Isla went unconscious beside me.

I tried calling Adam. Isla’s husband. But as soon the call went through, all I could hear was. “Leave me along. Isla, I am in the middle of something here.” When I clearly heard a woman’s voice in the back.

If not for a passing stranger, Isla and me wouldn’t have made it to the hospital, let along have survived.

So when I opened my eyes again, the first thing I thought was: I’m divorcing that sorry bastard. The Maretti can go to hell.

1

I woke up before Isla.

She lay still beside me, unconscious, her head bandaged and her breathing shallow. The doctors were monitoring her for a possible concussion. I, on the other hand, had no such luxury. The second I opened my eyes, I was dialing my family’s lawyer.

I wanted a divorce.

Rafe Moretti—my husband, the man who left me bleeding in some godforsaken warehouse while he played caretaker to Bianca and her cramps—would never have another claim on my name.

I told my lawyer: file the papers and sent it to Rafe. Like I expected, no word from Rafe, not even a response.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Maretti?” the doctor asked, his voice polite but edged with concern. “You’re stable now, though your injuries are significant. A fractured leg, and a deep abdominal wound. If your sister hadn’t applied pressure when she did… you would’ve bled out.”

“I’m lucky,” I said quietly. “Lucky to have Isla.”

He hesitated—just long enough to make my stomach clench.

“There’s more. We ran a full evaluation… and you were two months pregnant.” A pause. “The trauma from the knife wound caused a miscarriage. I’m sorry, Mrs. Maretti.”

Pregnant?

I blinked. My breath stilled in my throat.

A baby. There had been a baby.

I should’ve cried or screamed. But all I could feel was my body went cold and hollow.

Rafe hadn’t answered the phone. If he had, maybe the kidnappers wouldn’t have hurt me. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost the baby. Maybe Isla wouldn’t still be unconscious in that bed.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I texted Rafe. “Call me. Something about the baby.”

And just like that, the phone rang.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice exploded through the speaker. “How many times have I told you not to mention the baby to me again? Don’t fucking tell me that you were suddenly feeling pregnant. Your ovaries barely function—we’ve been over this.””

I didn’t get a word in.

“Or is this supposed to mock Bianca? She almost lost hers after that hit at the casino. And you—what? Call me a hundred times just for attention?”

“Rafe—” I tried, but he didn’t care.

“Your need for drama doesn’t outweigh Bianca’s safety. I warned you. Don’t use babies to manipulate me.”

“Rafe, it’s my fault,” Bianca’s voice chimed in, sweet and nauseating. “Please don’t be mad at your wife. She… she just wanted to see you—”

“No, Bianca. Don’t blame yourself. She’s always been a drama queen. A lying bitch.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the screen. I never even got to speak.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, desperately hoping for something—anything—to still be there.

But there was only silence. Only loss.

I never even got to meet them—my baby. Girl or boy, it didn’t matter. They were mine. And they were gone.

Because of Rafe. Because I let myself feel safe in a world where I was nothing but a pawn.

I should’ve known better.

…

The night those men took me, it was inside Rafe’s own casino.

One blink. A turned corner. And I was gone.

Shoved into the back of a van like some discarded luggage.

The warehouse they dragged me to was a skeleton of steel and rust—rotting beams, broken windows, and the kind of silence that made you believe no one would ever hear you scream.

There was a woman among them. She greeted me with a slap before I could even stand. The light was dim, flickering, barely enough to make out shapes—just shadows and sharp edges.

Then a man stepped forward. His voice slithered as he grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back.

“So you’re the wife,” he sneered. “Rafe’s little trophy. He’s the bastard who ran my boss’s family out of this city—stole our casino, crushed our name. And now? We want it back. You’re going to help me do that, sweetheart.”

He leaned in, his breath sour against my cheek.

“We’ll call your darling husband. You’ll tell him to hand over the casino. Or we’ll start slicing pieces off you. Clear enough, pretty face?”

I was nothing more than leverage.

And still, I believed—naively, stupidly—that once they got through to Rafe, everything would be okay. That he’d come. That he'd tear the city apart to find me.

But none of their calls went through.

Voicemail. Every single time.

One of them crouched in front of me, gave me a cruel smile, and drove a boot into my leg.

I crumpled, screaming. Pain bloomed white-hot and instant. My vision blurred.

“Guess he doesn’t care if you’re missing,” the man whispered.

And that was when I started to panic.

If Rafe wasn’t answering…or if they couldn’t reach him…Then what use was I?

The leader’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward a knife on the table. Its blade caught the light like it was smiling.

“Please,” I choked, crawling back. “Rafe just… he’s probably in a meeting. He always has his phone. He’ll call back. Just give him time.”

But the man only grinned. “I’m not a patient man.”

He picked up the knife. Walked toward me. And then—he stabbed straight into my stomach.

At first, I felt nothing. Just a strange pressure. And then the pain came. Explosive and consuming.

Warm blood spilled from me in waves, soaking my shirt, pooling at my waist. I tried to hold it in with trembling hands, but it was no use.

Another man snapped, possibly the big boss. “I told you to hurt her not to kill her, you idiot! What good is a corpse to us?”

He shoved the man away, stormed to my side, and crouched. His grip bruised my chin as he tilted my face to the light.

“Don’t die yet, pretty face,” he murmured. “Not until Rafe picks up.”

But my limbs were going numb. My breath short. The warehouse tilted sideways and the edges of the world darkened. I was slipping.

Until another kick jolted me awake.

The leader held up his phone, reading aloud in a mocking voice, “I’m with Bianca. She’s having stomach cramps. Stop calling.”

He laughed. Loud and cruel.

“That cold bastard,” he said. “Doesn’t even realize you’re gone. Guess you were just a pretty placeholder.”

Then he spat on me. “Bad luck. Got the wrong woman.”

Someone asked, “What do we do with her now?”

“She’s bleeding out anyway. Just dump her and go.”

One more kick. And then footsteps. The slam of a metal door.

And nothing. Just me. Alone. Bleeding out in a warehouse that reeked of mold, metal, and rot.

2

If it hadn’t been for the necklace around my throat—the one Isla gave me—I would’ve died right there, soaking in my own blood on a cracked concrete floor.

The necklace wasn’t just jewelry. It was a tracker. A squeeze on the charm, and the signal would ping the other end—an unspoken SOS between sisters.

We’d made a pact, Isla and I. If one of us pressed it, it meant we were in trouble. The kind of trouble no one else could help with.

I had just enough strength left to squeeze it before the world turned black.

The next thing I remember was being shaken—gently, urgently.

“Serena. Serena, stay with me.” Isla.

She was kneeling beside me, tears streaking down her cheeks, using the hem of her dress to try and stop the bleeding. Her hands were covered in my blood, but she never stopped pressing. Never stopped talking.

“Hang in there,” she whispered, even as her voice cracked. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Somehow—God knows how—she lifted me. Isla, my always-delicate sister, who could barely carry a suitcase without swearing.

But that night, she carried me.

She got me into her car. Slammed the door. Hit the gas.

“Don’t close your eyes,” she snapped, glancing at me over and over. “Press on your wound. Keep pressure. Stay conscious.”

I tried. I really did. But my arms were weak, and my eyes felt like stone.

“If I don’t make it,” I mumbled, trying to smile, “make sure my tomb’s pretty, alright? You know I like things… beautiful.”

“Don’t you dare,” Isla hissed. “Don’t you fucking dare say things like that. You’re staying. Do you hear me, Serena? You. Are. Staying.”

That’s when the brakes failed.

I heard the panic in her voice before the impact hit. “The brakes—shit—they’re not working!”

Metal screamed as we slammed into a wall. The world jerked. Isla’s head hit the steering wheel hard—and she went limp.

I tried my best to reach for Isla’s phone and dial the only person left who might give a damn.

Adam Moretti. Her husband. My nephew-in-law.

Our last possible hope.

The line connected. And before I could say a word, his voice cut through—loud, angry.

“For fuck’s sake, Isla! Can you leave me the hell alone for one minute? I told you—I’m dealing with something!”

Then a woman’s voice in the background.

The call dropped. Just like that.

It was just me and Isla. Me bleeding. Her unconscious. And no Morettis giving a damn.

It could’ve ended there. Should’ve, maybe.

But fate had one more surprise.

A car pulled over.

A stranger. Kind, fast, maybe just too curious for his own good. He saw the wreck, saw us who looked more dead than alive—and he acted.

He got us to the hospital. He saved us.

…

The hospital room was too quiet. The kind of quiet where even the IV drip sounded like a ticking bomb. Each drop echoing the truth neither of us wanted to speak.

Isla had finally woken up. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red.

I told her what happened, about the kidnapping and Rafe. But most of all, I told her about Adam’s callous, arrogant response.

To my surprise, Isla didn’t look stunned. Not even a flicker. Instead, she just let out a bitter little smile and whispered, “Adam and I… we’ve been going through some rough things lately.”

I felt sad for my little sister.

If I hadn’t introduced her to Adam and dragged her into the Moretti mess…

Maybe she’d still have a husband who gave a damn. And we wouldn’t both be punished for marrying into this family.

“I shouldn’t have introduced you to him,” I whispered. “I didn’t think he’d—”

“Sis,” Isla cut in gently, squeezing my hand tight. “It’s not your fault. Ever since I lost the baby… Adam’s been different. Cold. Detached. But none of it is on you.”

Before I could respond, her phone rang.

I nodded. “Put it on speaker.”

She hesitated, then answered. “Hey, Adam.”

“What the hell do you want, Isla?” His voice roared through the speaker, so loud the nurse passing outside flinched. “Didn’t I say I was in the middle of something? And now my uncle tells me Serena keeps calling him too? Jesus Christ.”

Then came the venom.

“Is this some Valez sister hobby? Interrupting other people’s lives for attention? Tell your sister to drop the act. Stop using the baby excuse to get sympathy. My uncle’s already done with her melodrama.”

Isla stayed quiet. Too quiet.

“Adam,” Isla said calmly, “you’re my husband. I called because I needed you.”

“So what?” he snapped. “Because I married you, I am on call 24/7? I am not your houseboys. I’ve got actual businesses to run. The money you’re swimming in? The mansion? The pool? It doesn’t come from posting pretty pictures online. So maybe think twice before interrupting again.”

He paused—just long enough to cut deep.

“If it wasn’t bad enough dealing with a malfunctioning Serena, I don’t need you turning into her too, Isla.”

Then the call ended.

Silence.

Isla looked like she’d been slapped. Her face went pale, then paler. I reached across the sheets and wrapped my fingers around hers.

I whispered. “We’re getting out. I’m your sister. I’ll burn the Moretti name to the ground before I let them ruin us again. You hear me?”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled anyway. “I never doubted you, sis.”

I forced a breath through my lungs. “Maybe this is God’s way of saying we’ve lingered too long in the Moretti world. But for now—rest. Heal. Then we fight.”

Isla nodded. “It’s already a blessing we survived. If it weren’t for that kind stranger… who knows where we’d be.”

She crumbled onto my shoulder, sobbing in silence. I held her tight. Let her cry. Let her fall apart because I knew—I knew—that I was right there with her. Beneath the surface, I was shattered too.

We were both grieving. For our bodies. Our babies. Our marriages. For the lie we’d built up around the Moretti name.

I used to think marrying into the Moretti family was a dream.

Two sisters. Two powerful men. Glamour. Power. Love.

But it had all been a trap.

There’d been a comment once—on one of my old Instagram posts, back when I used to romanticize our lives with cute captions and matching outfits.

"Hope you don’t regret marrying them. Men change."

At the time, I’d rolled my eyes. Thought they were just bitter.

But now? Now I knew.

Men do change.

3

At first, it was subtle. Missed calls. Late nights. Then it was whispers. Secret meetings.

Rafe stopped answering. Adam stopped caring.

I’d tried to justify it. Over and over.

Rafe was a casino boss—late nights, pressure, meetings with unsavory people. It came with the territory. And Adam? He was probably too busy with those offshore accounts, encrypted deals.

And now—finally, painfully—Isla and I understood.

There was never a missed call or a scheduling conflict or a damn business emergency.

There was just Bianca Rotti.

I called around, pieced the truth together one ugly shard at a time.

Bianca Rotti, the Moretti’s old friend, came back to New York about six months ago—desperate, vulnerable, crying about some dangerous ex who wouldn’t leave her alone.

She ran straight to Rafe. And he, in all his shining-knight delusion, opened the gates and let her in.

She needed protection. Rafe had power. It was a perfect match—for her, anyway.

And soon, Adam got involved too. Bianca’s ex? Another mafia leader. One the Moretti family used to partner with—until Adam cut ties for Bianca, even stole some of his deals, and claimed Bianca like a prize.

Uncle and nephew.

Both Morettis. Both head over heels for the same woman.

While Isla and I? We were quietly erased. The real wives. The forgotten ones.

No wonder Rafe hadn’t done a single thing for me in over a year. No Valentine's Day. No anniversary. Not even a goddamn apology. Instead, he gaslit me—told me I was the disappointment. That my inability to get pregnant had hurt him.

Maybe they didn’t love us anymore. Or maybe they never had.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the moment they chose her over us? That was the only answer we ever needed.

They weren’t husbands. They were cowards.

…

I was sipping water when my friend sent me the post. “Is this your husband and nephew-in-law?”

I clicked the link, already knowing I wouldn’t like what I saw.

There they were. Rafe on one side, Adam on the other. Flanking Bianca like prize guards at a debutante ball.

The caption?

“Grateful to my two saviors. They helped me escape a dangerous past—and now, I can raise my baby in peace.”

Over ten thousand likes. And the comments?

“Envy you. When can I get a hero like that?”

“Momma needs that handsome boy.”

“Manifesting this kind of love.”

“Wait… aren’t these the Moretti men? Weren’t they already married? To sisters???”

“OMFG—uncle and nephew both in love with the same woman? The drama is unreal.”

I showed the post to Isla.

Her face didn’t twist in anger and her eyes didn’t tear up.

We were past that stage. Way past it.

“If she’s what they want,” I said, smiling coldly, “then let them have her.”

“You’re damn right,” Isla muttered, not even sparing the screen a second glance. “I’m done with Adam.”

So I called the lawyer. Again.

We’d already sent the divorce papers once. The Moretti ignored them—probably assuming we were emotional, unstable, playing games.

Doesn’t matter. If they kept ignoring, I will just keep sending.

Rafe still didn’t respond, and so did Adam. Not to the email, not to the lawyer, not even a text.

For a second, I wondered if the address was wrong or the courier never delivered.

But no. I told myself that I knew better.

Rafe Moretti was many things. A ruthless leader. A calculated strategist. And above all, never careless.

No, he got the papers. He just didn’t think he had to care.

Rafe and Adam were mafia royalty. And men like them? They didn’t chase. They expected you to break first.

Whoever blinked first lost. And I’d done enough losing for one lifetime.

So I stayed silent.

…

Two days later, my phone rang—and Rafe’s name lit up my screen.

Finally.

“What the hell do you want, Serena?” Rafe’s voice snapped through the line like a whip. “Haven’t I given you enough? A house? Fucking bank account? A yacht? What more do you want?”

I didn’t flinch.

“I want a divorce.”

There was a loud crash—glass, maybe. Then a string of muttered curses.

“Are you done?” he growled. “I’ll forgive you for this tantrum, but if you keep pushing, I swear—I'll lose it. And you don’t want to see what I’ll do when I lose it, Serena.”

In that moment, I saw Rafe for who he really was. Not the powerful man I once admired. Not the husband I once adored. Just a petulant, self-absorbed manchild, shocked the world didn’t revolve around him anymore.

And then, like clockwork—her voice.

“Rafe, I brought your coffee,” Bianca purred in the background. “Adam’s joining us soon. Should we head to the restaurant?”

Of course.

“Right,” I said, my voice cool as steel. “I thought you were too busy running a casino. But it turns out you’re just busy being Bianca’s lapdog. Don’t worry, Rafe. Take your time with the divorce papers—I’d hate to interrupt your little date.”

He snapped.

“Watch your tone, Serena. Have I given you too much power? Don’t you dare mock me—or Bianca. I’m only helping her because she’s pregnant. And alone.”

Pregnant. And alone.

Like I hadn’t been.

“Huh.” I laughed, bitter and broken. “So busy taking care of someone else… when you couldn’t even take care of your own family.”

“Failed at taking care of you?” Rafe barked. “Are you insane—”

“Is that Serena?” Bianca cut in, sweet as poisoned honey. “Let me talk to her. I don’t want her to… misunderstand.”

She took the phone, her voice laced in concern. “Hey, Serena. I just wanted you to know this isn’t Rafe’s fault. I’ve been on my own here in the city. And he’s just… being kind.”

I snorted. “Oh, I know. Rafe never does anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“Serena, I hope you can be a bit more understanding,” she said gently. “Being pregnant… going back and forth between appointments, dealing with stress… it’s hard.”

Then came the knife.

“I heard from Rafe that… you can’t get pregnant, right? So maybe you’re lucky. You’ll never have to feel what I’m feeling.”

I went still. And quietly, I whispered, “You bitch.”

Then came Rafe’s voice, cruel and indifferent.

“She’ll never understand what it’s like. Bianca. Let’s get going—you are pregnant.You need the food.”

The call cut.

And all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until Isla reached out, gently wiping the tears from my cheek.

“Don’t cry,” she whispered. “You told me they’re not worth it. And you were right.”

I wasn’t crying for Rafe. I was crying for the baby I lost.

The child I never knew. The one I never even got the chance to love.

4

During all the time Isla and I spent in the hospital—bleeding, healing, barely breathing—neither Rafe nor Adam reached out.

Not a single message or a call.

They probably hadn’t even noticed we weren’t home. Too busy playing hero for their precious Bianca, no doubt. Protecting her like some delicate little flower wilting under the weight of the world.

Hell didn’t come until Isla and I checked ourselves out of the hospital—and ran into the circus.

There they were. Bianca and her two knights on the street, probably shopping.

Rafe was carrying the bags like a dutiful assistant, while Adam held her hand and guided her gently across the pavement, like she might collapse from the weight of her own perfume.

The three of them looked like… a family. A couple and a spare. Or maybe a father, mother, and doting son.

Honestly? They looked sick.

Their smiles were even worse—plastic and pristine, like they belonged in a drugstore frame.

Isla turned away, blinking fast, like she could erase the scene from her memory. But I didn’t. I stayed and even thought about taking a picture of those perfect three.

Because if Isla and I were doing this—if we were truly walking away—then we needed evidences.

I watched as they strolled right into a boutique nursery. Baby clothes. Pastel walls. Rafe held up a tiny onesie while Adam rubbed Bianca’s shoulder.

I lifted my phone. One photo. That’s all it took.

I slid the phone into my coat and whispered to Isla, “Let’s go. I’ve got what we need.”

That night, our lawyers sent out a final warning.

Meet us at the courthouse tomorrow for divorce proceedings. If you fail to appear, we will sue.

The Moretti men hated court and being told what to do. Which made this the perfect threat.

Just in case, I hired a private investigator—someone with experience catching husbands where they shouldn’t be. But the moment I said the names “Rafe” and “Adam Moretti,” the man hesitated.

His smile faltered. His tone shifted.

“Mrs. Moretti… I’m afraid the only one who might help you is the police.”

“The police?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “The Morettis own half the precinct. That’s why we came to you.”

“I—I’m sorry, it’s just… those two are powerful. Our agency doesn’t usually get involved with men like them. You never know what you’re getting into.”

I leaned forward, voice quiet and sharp.

“I was kidnapped, stabbed, and left for dead while my husband played sugar daddy to a pregnant woman who wasn’t me. My sister nearly died in a car crash while her husband was off playing house with the same woman. We’re not asking you to get involved. We’re asking you to do your job.”

He stared for a long time. Then, finally, he nodded.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

That night, we went back to our old house, not wanting to see the Moretti before the divorce.

During the dinner time, Bianca had posted again.

This time, a photo of a newborn wrapped in pink lace. No Rafe. No Adam.

But the comment section told its own story.

“Congratulations! Can’t wait to welcome this little one into the Moretti family!”

“Godfather reporting for duty.”

…

Later this night, Rafe called. He might be afraid that I would go to the court for real if I didn’t hear from him before tomorrow.

“I just saw your text,” he snapped. “What is this constant need for attention, Serena?”

He didn’t even ask where we were. Just jumped to control.

“And where the hell is Isla? Adam said you talked her into a divorce too. What kind of twisted game are you playing?”

“No, Rafe, I am not playing any games. Isla and I, we both want a divorce.”

“Well, you can keep dreaming. Because it’s not happening. I won’t allow it. Adam won’t allw it. Now pull yourself together and stop causing problems.”

I smiled.

“No, Rafe Moretti. I’m not asking for your approval. I am informing you—formally—that I will be divorcing you. You’ve got two choices: sign the papers, or face me in court.”

Then I hung up before he could spit another threat.

Across the room, Isla lowered her phone. She’d just finished her own call with Adam.

“Same tantrum,” she muttered, wiping her hands like she’d touched something foul. “Same denial. Same threats.”

“But this time,” I said, meeting her eyes, “we’re not backing down.”

5

I woke a little bit earlier than Isla the next morning.

Today was the day. The day we’d face the Morettis and make the divorce official.

You’d think I’d feel empowered or liberated. But instead, there was a strange heaviness in my chest. A whisper of unease I couldn’t quite name.

And then I saw her.

Bianca. Standing on the courthouse steps like she owned the damn place, a baby cradled in her arms like some twisted prop in a redemption arc.

She looked radiant. Just… perfect. Like someone had spent weeks pampering her back to life.

The Moretti uncle and nephew must’ve taken good care of her.

As soon as she spotted us, her face crumpled. Tears welled up instantly, like she’d rehearsed it in the mirror.

“Serena, right? And Isla?” Her voice trembled with soft, practiced sincerity. “Please… don’t go through with this. Rafe and Adam are good men. They helped me when I moved back, after I broke up with my ex. He was—he was a monster. And then they helped me through the pregnancy, and the birth of my little girl. But there’s nothing going on between us, I swear.”

I raised a hand. “Stop.”

She flinched, like my words had slapped her.

“I admire the performance, Bianca. Really. But we’re not divorcing them because of you. We’re divorcing them because they failed us. They ignored us. They abandoned their wives, their families. That’s not on you. That’s on them. So no, your apology doesn’t change anything. And yes—we still want them gone.”

“But Serena, I—”

She didn’t finish.

Instead, she stumbled. Gracefully. Dramatically. Straight to the ground.

It was so well-timed, so deliberate.

But look at the baby in her arms, I instinctively reach out, wanting to help her up. But before I could touch her, Rafe appeared like a storm—shoving me back so hard I staggered.

“You bitch,” he snarled. “Have you lost your damn mind?!”

I nearly fell. Would’ve hit the concrete if Isla hadn’t caught me.

Rafe crouched beside Bianca, who now clung to him, whimpering like a delicate fawn. And as he helped her up, she glanced at me—

And smiled.

That smug, secret smile that only women like her know how to wear.

Bitch. She was faking the fall.

A sharp pain stabbed through my side—the wound from the kidnapping, now pulsing again. I pressed a hand to it, trying to breathe through it.

That’s when Rafe finally noticed.

“What’s going on with your stomach?”

Before I could answer, another voice cut in.

Adam.

He stepped out of the sleek black car like he hadn’t just ignored his wife for weeks. His eyes flicked between us, unreadable, until he landed on Rafe.

“Uncle,” he said, voice tight, “one of my men just called. Said someone left a message. A warning.”

He glanced my way—then quickly looked away.

“They said if we don’t return the casinos we took, next time... they’ll make sure your wife doesn’t survive. Said she was lucky to get out this time.”

Rafe went still.

His face, always so composed, drained of color.

“You were kidnapped?” he said, his voice low, cracking at the edges. “Serena… is it true? Tell me.”

I didn’t even blink.

“Does it matter?” I said softly. “Would you have believed me if I told you when it mattered?”

He didn’t respond. Because we both knew the answer.

Isla stepped forward, calm and shaking all at once. She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded document. Shoved it into Rafe’s hands like it burned.

“My sister didn’t just get kidnapped. She also lost her baby,” she said. “Here, Serena’s surgical report. Two months pregnant. Look.”

Rafe’s hands trembled as he opened it.

His mouth opened, then closed. The silence was deafening.

“You were… pregnant? So that day, you called me for something about the baby, you were trying to tell me you got pregnant?” he whispered, like the words hurt. “Serena, please. Tell me the truth.”

I met his eyes.

Cold. Steady. Done.

“You want the truth?” I said, my voice like broken glass. “Those bastards drove a knife into my belly.”

I took a step closer, close enough for him to see the fury behind my tears.

“And yes, Rafe—I lost the baby when you were too busy to answer your damn phone.”