The Mafia Boss Slapped His Pregnant Wife to Defend His Mistress—By Sunrise, She Was Gone

Dante lifted his tear-streaked face. The pain in his eyes was naked, raw, and completely unshielded.

"I know," he whispered. "I know what I did. I destroyed Bianca. I destroyed the Russos, the Morettis, everyone who ever conspired against you. Emma, please... I didn't know she was working with them. I thought—"

"You thought what, Dante?" Emma stepped forward, anger finally breaking through her cold exterior. "You thought your pregnant wife deserved to be struck across the face because she defended herself against your mistress? You thought I was something you could buy, silence, and discard when I became an inconvenience to your ego?"

"No! Never!" Dante cried, reaching out toward the hem of her dress, though he didn't dare touch her. "It was the worst mistake of my life! I haven't slept a night since you left! Every time I close my eyes, I see your face, I see my hand... I hate myself, Emma. I hate what I became."

"Then live with that hatred," Emma said coldly. "Because Clara and I will not bear it for you."

Clara, sensing the tension, let out a small, frightened whimper, burying her face into Emma’s neck.

Dante instantly pulled his hands back, as if burned. "Don't... don't let her be afraid of me. Please."

"She isn't afraid of you, Dante. She doesn't even know who you are," Emma said, and the words sliced deeper than any blade. "To her, you are just a stranger crying on our floor."

Dante closed his eyes, shuddering beneath the weight of her words. He slowly stood up, using the edge of a table to steady himself.

"I won't force you to come back," Dante said, his voice ragged. "I won't drag you into the dark. But let me protect you. The Morettis... remnants of their faction are still hunting for revenge. They don't know where you are, but—"

The sound of shattering glass cut him off.

From the street, the black town car Marco had been guarding exploded in a deafening ball of fire. The shockwave blew out the storefront windows of the bakery, showering the interior in glittering shards of glass.

Emma screamed, dropping behind the heavy wooden counter, shielding Clara with her entire body.

"Marco!" Dante roared, his instincts taking over instantly.

Tires screeched outside. A dark SUV skidded to a halt in front of the shattered shop. Two masked men leaped out, armed with automatic submachine guns—Moretti loyalists who had tracked Dante's trail from Chicago, waiting for the Don to be isolated and unguarded.

"Romano!" a voice screamed from the street.

Gunfire ripped through the timber walls. Cans of flour exploded, books shredded into confetti, and wooden splinters filled the air like shrapnel.

Emma huddled beneath the counter, Clara screaming in absolute terror in her arms. Emma felt the cold grip of death approaching; there was nowhere to run.

Then, a massive weight slammed over them.

Dante threw himself across Emma and Clara, turning his broad back into an iron wall between the gunfire and his family.

*Crack. Crack. Crack.*

Emma felt Dante’s body jerk violently once, twice, three times as heavy-caliber rounds tore through his flesh. A deep, wet groan escaped his throat, but he did not move. He wrapped his arms around Emma’s head and Clara’s tiny body, absorbing the bullets meant to erase them.

"I have you," Dante whispered, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips, dripping onto the flour-dusted floor beside Emma’s cheek. "I have you... you’re safe..."

Outside, a volley of return fire echoed. Marco, having survived the car bomb, engaged the shooters with lethal, military precision. Shouts, groans, and the screeching of tires followed until the street fell into an eerie, smoking silence.

Dante collapsed forward, his full weight pressing against Emma.

"Dante!" Emma gasped, her hands immediately finding his back. Her fingers came away warm, slick, and crimson.

He had taken three bullets directly into his upper back and shoulder. His breathing was shallow, a wet rattling sound in his chest. Yet, through the agonizing haze of dying, he looked down at Clara, who was unhurt, crying against Emma’s chest.

A faint, broken smile touched Dante’s bloodied lips.

"She’s... so beautiful, Emma," he whispered, his gray eyes beginning to glaze over. "She looks... just like you."