The Mafia Boss Kissed Her Sister and Swore His Pregnant Wife Could Never Leave Him, but By Sunrise She Was Gone
His face hardened.
“You’re upset.”
“I am leaving.”
That stopped him.
For one second, she saw genuine surprise.
Then Gabriel smiled.
It was not the smile he used with her.
It was the smile other men feared.
“No.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“No?”
“You’re seven months pregnant.”
“I know how pregnant I am.”
“You’re emotional.
You’ll sleep.
We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I am leaving tonight.”
“You are not walking out into January in the middle of the night.”
“Watch me.”
She turned toward the bedroom wing.
Gabriel stepped in front of her.
“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“I understand perfectly.”
“My name protects you.”
“Your name just humiliated me.”
“My enemies know what you mean to me.”
Beatrice’s eyes filled.
“Do I?”
His expression flickered.
She continued.
“Do I mean something to you, Gabriel? Or do you just like owning something soft to come home to?”
“Enough.”
“You kissed my sister.”
“I said enough.”
“And I said I’m leaving.”
His voice dropped.
“You can’t disappear.”
Something about the certainty in it frightened her more than shouting would have.
Gabriel leaned closer.
“You have no idea what exists outside these gates.
People would use you to get to me.
They would use the baby.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“I won’t.”
“This isn’t your choice.”
His eyes became still.
“Everything involving my child is my choice.”
Beatrice recoiled.
There it was.
Not husband.
Not father.
Owner.
Gabriel took her back to the master suite.
He told himself he was protecting her from making a reckless decision.
Beatrice knew the truth.
He locked the door.
The deadbolt clicked from the hallway.
She stood completely still.
Then she heard his footsteps disappear.
Downstairs, the crowd began counting.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Beatrice sat on the edge of the bed.
Seven.
She looked at her wedding ring.
Six.
She remembered Gabriel crying when she told him she was pregnant.
Five.
She remembered Chloe sleeping beside her after their mother’s funeral.
Four.
She remembered the bakery.
Three.
She remembered herself.
Two.
One.
Fireworks exploded outside.
Everyone downstairs cheered.
Beatrice removed her wedding ring.
Then she stood.
Gabriel believed he had married a woman incapable of surviving his world.
He was wrong about that too.
For almost a year, Beatrice had quietly prepared for the possibility that she might someday need to leave.
Not because she expected infidelity.
Because she had started understanding the man she married.
She had seen what happened when employees disappointed him.
She had heard doors slam in rooms she was never allowed to enter.
She had noticed financial records arriving at the house under false company names.
Gabriel had never hidden his darkness completely.
He had simply convinced Beatrice it would never turn toward her.
She crossed the bedroom and entered the walk-in closet.
Behind boxes of winter shoes sat an old canvas duffel bag.
Inside were clothes, cash, medication, copies of identification documents, a cheap phone that had never been activated, and a folder containing records she hoped she would never need.
Beatrice changed into leggings, sneakers, a sweatshirt, and Gabriel’s oldest black winter coat.
Then she went to the sitting room.
The Alpine estate had been built in the 1920s and renovated so many times that portions of the old servants’ layout remained hidden behind modern walls.
Beatrice knew because she had supervised the final renovation herself.
Behind decorative paneling near the laundry alcove was a narrow service passage.
Gabriel had forgotten it existed.
Beatrice had not.
It took nearly fifteen minutes to work the old interior latch loose.
Her arms trembled.
Her back ached.
Twice, she had to stop because the baby shifted painfully.
Finally, the panel opened.
Cold darkness waited behind it.
Beatrice looked once toward the locked bedroom door.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the child inside her.
Then she corrected herself.
She entered the passage.
The stairs were narrow.
She descended slowly, one hand on the railing, one protecting her stomach.
Every creak sounded enormous.
When she reached the basement, she was sweating despite the cold.
The main garage contained Gabriel’s spotless collection of luxury vehicles.
She ignored all of them.
Too obvious.
In the rear maintenance bay sat an old Ford pickup belonging to Hector Morales, the estate’s sixty-eight-year-old groundskeeper.
Two days earlier, Hector had complained during breakfast that the truck needed a new alternator.
He had left the spare key in the maintenance drawer.
Beatrice found it.
Her hands shook as she opened the driver’s door.
“Please,” she whispered.
The engine coughed.
Stopped.
She closed her eyes.
Tried again.
The Ford started.
Beatrice almost cried.
Instead, she put it in gear.
The rear service exit was open because catering trucks had been moving through it all night.
No guard stopped an old groundskeeping pickup leaving a New Year’s party.
At 12:49 a.m., Beatrice Rossi drove through the gates of the estate.
