The Mafia Boss Told His Pregnant Wife to Take Any Child Who Wanted Her, Then All Four of His Heirs Stood Up at Once

The tension inside the chapel was suffocating. Not a single man among the three hundred guests dared to draw a weapon, caught between the established authority of Damon Northcott and the horrifying accusations hanging in the air.

"This is an outrage!" Vance shouted, stepping down the altar steps, his hand still buried in his breast pocket. "You're shielding the woman who poisoned your mother! The digital prescription came from Eliza’s computer! Show some respect for Helena’s memory and step aside so we can execute the traitor!"

"Eliza didn't write that prescription," Delaney’s voice cut through the cathedral like a razor.

Delaney stepped onto the first tier of the marble sanctuary, raising her tablet toward the massive audiovisual screens suspended on either side of the crucifix—screens meant to display Helena’s memorial slideshow.

With a swipe of her thumb, Delaney tapped into the chapel’s multimedia feed.

The screens flickered. Helena’s black-and-white portrait disappeared, replaced by high-resolution digital security logs and financial bank statements.

"This is the internal server log from the Helena Care Foundation," Delaney announced, turning to face the assembly of syndicate bosses. "Timestamped at eleven forty-two p.m. on the night of Grandmother’s death. The IP address that authorized the digitalis overdose didn't come from Eliza’s suite. It was routed through the foundation's administrative terminal in the lower medical bay—a terminal locked with biometric clearance."

Delaney pointed directly at Dr. Quentin Rusk.

"Clearance that belongs exclusively to Dr. Quentin Rusk."

A chorus of sharp gasps rippled through the pews. Two senior capos from Brooklyn stood up, their hands dropping toward their waistbands.

"Lies!" Rusk stammered, backing toward the rear sacristy door. "She forged those records! She’s Damon’s daughter, she’ll say anything to protect him!"

"Then let's hear Grandmother in her own words," Wyatt said loudly.

Wyatt reached into his pocket and produced a small, silver digital dictaphone—the device Helena Northcott used to record her memoirs and daily instructions. He held it up to the pulpit microphone and pressed play.

Helena’s voice, raspy, aristocratic, and unmistakable, echoed through the stone rafters:

*"Quentin, you sniveling coward. If you are listening to this, it means you brought the digitalis into my private chambers. Phoebe knows nothing of the real dose. She thinks this is a warning shot to break Damon’s marriage. But Damon won't break unless he believes Eliza is a monster. Once Eliza is eliminated and Damon is broken by grief, you and Victor will execute the offshore trust transfer. Fifty million for you, fifty million for Victor, and the Northcott empire remains under the foundation's control. But remember this, Quentin: if you betray my bloodline, my grandson Wyatt will find this recording in the base of my jewelry case. And he will skin you alive."*

The recording clicked off.

The silence that followed was terrifying.

Every capo, every boss, every lieutenant in the church turned their gaze upon Victor Vance and Dr. Quentin Rusk.

Helena had orchestrated a cruel game to destroy Eliza, but Vance and Rusk had turned it into an execution—and a corporate coup.

Vance knew he was dead.

His eyes darted wildly, seeing the wall of hardened syndicate men closing the exits. In a burst of pure, cornered insanity, Vance drew his automatic pistol, aiming not at Damon, but straight at Eliza’s pregnant stomach.