The Maid’s Little Boy Whispered That His Wife Met a Different Man Every Night, and the Mafia Boss Followed Her to a Secret That Broke Him

He did not remember getting into his car, nor did he remember the terrifying speed at which his convoy tore through the streets of New Orleans, running red lights and scattering traffic like leaves before a hurricane.

All he knew was the burning, agonizing roar in his chest.

Mason.

His younger brother—the boy he had buried in a sealed bronze casket eleven years ago, the boy whose memory had haunted every waking hour of his life, the boy whose death had turned Declan into a cold-blooded monster—was breathing.

Inside the rear of the lead SUV, Declan sat in absolute silence, his hands locked together so tightly his skin was pale. Beside him, Owen was frantically making calls to their heavily armed tactical units.

“Boss,” Owen reported, his voice shaking with unprecedented adrenaline. “I’ve deployed thirty men. We’re surrounding St. Jude’s Clinic right now. If Victor Vance or any Valenti enforcers try to move, my men will cut them down.”

“No,” Declan said, his voice dropping into a register of quiet, terrifying authority. “No shooting unless I give the word. If my wife is in that building... if Mason is in that building... I will not have their blood on my hands.”

Ten minutes later, four black SUVs slammed to a halt in the alley behind St. Jude’s Free Clinic, blocking both ends of the street.

Declan stepped out into the damp morning air, pulling his heavy dark coat around his shoulders. Twelve heavily armed men in black tactical gear stepped out behind him, weapons held at the ready.

Declan walked straight to the rusted iron door. With a single, brutal kick from his heavy boot, he shattered the deadbolt, throwing the iron door wide open.

He strode down the dimly lit, sterile concrete corridor, his leather shoes echoing like thunder against the walls.

At the end of the hall, near the entrance to a basement medical ward, stood Victor Vance.

The scarred enforcer pulled a heavy revolver from his coat, his eyes wide with sudden panic as he saw Declan Mercer marching toward him like an vengeful god.

“Mercer!” Vance yelled, raising the gun. “Stay back! I’ll blow this whole place—”

Before Vance could finish his sentence, Declan closed the distance with terrifying speed. He caught Vance’s wrist, twisting it upward with brutal force until the gun clattered to the floor, then slammed the massive enforcer face-first into the concrete wall.

CRACK.

Vance screamed as his nose shattered against the brick. Declan pinned him by the throat, his dark eyes burning with an unholy fire.

“Where is my wife?” Declan whispered into Vance’s ear. “Where is my brother?”

Vance choked, gasping for air, looking at the army of armed men standing behind Declan. He realized in an instant that the Valenti empire could not save him now.

“Downstairs...” Vance wheezed out. “Room 4... She’s in Room 4...”

Declan threw Vance onto the floor like a rag doll. “Owen. Bind him. If he moves, kill him.”

Declan turned and walked down the damp concrete stairs into the subterranean basement.

The air smelled of antiseptic, copper, and old damp stone. At the end of the corridor, a single warm light shone from beneath the door of Room 4.

Declan stopped outside the frosted glass door. His hands, which had held guns, signed multi-million-dollar contracts, and ruled an underworld without flinching, were shaking violently.