The first image was from a hospital security camera.

Massimo’s voice echoed through the chapel, cold and clear.

“No one tells Arabella the truth. I want her to raise my son with Bianca as her own.”

“And that new drug from the hospital… the one that ensures a woman can never conceive again. Make sure Arabella gets it.”

The blood drained from Bianca’s face.

Massimo’s hands began to shake. The baby in his arms sensed his fear and began to cry.

“This can’t be…” he muttered.

But the screen kept playing.

Next came photos and videos from Massimo’s phone.

Him, teaching Bianca to shoot, their bodies close.

Him, painting her portrait, a tender moment.

A deep kiss in the glass studio on Lake Michigan.

Every frame was proof of his betrayal.

“My God, is this real?” someone whispered from the pews. “What about Mrs. Falcone? Does she know?”

Then came the kill shot: A voice memo.

It was Massimo in Miami, making a promise to Bianca.

“Baby, don’t you worry. Arabella will never get pregnant again.”

“Our son will be the only heir to the Falcone family.”

“She’s just a means to an end. You… you’re my woman.”

The church erupted.

“This is sick!”

“To do that to your own wife!”

“What kind of man is he?”

Bianca made a break for it, but Marco Ricci’s men were already blocking the doors.

“Massimo!” she hissed, grabbing his sleeve. “We have to go! This is all fake!”

Massimo shoved her hand away, his eyes locked on the screen, hollow.

His world was shattering.

“Everyone.” Marco Ricci stood up, his voice commanding respect. “As the representative of the Rossi family, I have an announcement.”

All eyes turned to the old man.

Massimo’s head snapped up. “The Rossis?”

They were the oldest Outfit in Chicago. They’d gone legit twenty years ago.

“That’s right,” Marco smiled. “Arabella Rossi is the last of our bloodline.”

“Which means, Massimo Falcone,” his voice turned to ice, “the woman you betrayed, the woman you broke… wasn’t just some nameless girl. She is a Rossi princess.”

A thunder of gasps and murmurs rolled through the church.

The older Dons, the godfathers of the old school, stood up one by one, their faces grim.

“I thought the Rossi line was dead.”

“There’s still an heir…”

“No wonder the girl had that kind of class.”

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