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

Before Vance could squeeze the trigger, Micah moved.

The nineteen-year-old launched himself across the altar rail, slamming his shoulder into Vance’s torso with the force of a freight train. Both men crashed into Helena’s mahogany casket, knocking the heavy coffin askew, sending hundreds of white calla lilies scattering across the marble steps like torn paper.

The gun discharged wildly, the bullet ricocheting off the bronze pulpit.

Vance rolled onto his back, kicking Micah off him, raising the weapon to fire again.

"Micah, down!" Damon roared.

Damon didn't hesitate. Drawing his Beretta in a fraction of a second, he fired three center-mass rounds into Vance’s chest. The concussive blasts thundered inside the enclosed sanctuary, filling the air with the sharp, acidic stench of cordite.

Vance collapsed backward against the base of his former patron’s coffin, his eyes rolling back into his head, his fingers twitching once before going completely still.

On the other side of the altar, Dr. Quentin Rusk bolted for the sacristy exit.

"Don't let him leave!" Phoebe cried.

Wyatt was already moving. He vaulted the marble banister, cutting off Rusk’s retreat. With a clean, brutal right hook, Wyatt struck the physician across the jaw. Rusk spun and crashed into the heavy oak choir stalls, groaning as his spectacles shattered against the floor.

Wyatt pinned the sixty-one-year-old doctor to the wood, twisting his arm behind his back until Rusk screamed in agony.

"That's for my sister," Wyatt growled in Rusk’s ear. "And for my mother."

In the pews, dozens of syndicate bosses had drawn their weapons, forming an armed perimeter around the family. But none of them aimed at Damon.

Instead, the senior capo from Detroit—an elder named Salvatore Marcone, who had known Helena for forty years—stepped into the aisle, tucking his revolver into his holster.

Marcone looked down at Vance’s body, then at the bloodied doctor pinned to the altar, and finally up at Damon.

"The council recognizes the sovereign," Marcone said, his gravelly voice filled with absolute respect. "Your house was infested with vipers, Damon. You cleaned it."

Damon didn't answer. He didn't look at Marcone. He didn't care about the syndicate, the empire, or the three hundred men bowing their heads.

Because behind him, Eliza collapsed onto her knees with a sharp, ragged scream.

"Eliza!" Damon dropped his gun, sprinting to her side, sliding onto his knees on the flower-covered marble.

Phoebe and Delaney were already on the floor beside her. Eliza’s face was ghost-white, her teeth clenched so hard her lip was bleeding. A pool of fluid was spreading beneath the hem of her navy dress.

"Her water broke," Delaney yelled, terror cracking her voice. "The stress—the baby is crowning! Dad, he's in distress!"

"Call the private clinic!" Damon bellowed at the stunned assembly. "Clear the road! Salvatore, get every car out of the gates now!"

"No time," Eliza gasped, gripping Damon’s wrists with terrifying strength. Her eyes were wide, dilated with pain and fierce, primal determination. "Damon... he's coming now. He can't wait."

Damon looked at his four children. The panic that had gripped him vanished, replaced by an unbreakable, laser-focused resolve.

"Wyatt, lock those sacristy doors!" Damon commanded, stripping off his bloodied shirt and rolling it into a clean headrest. "Micah, bring the first aid kit from the chapel vestibule! Delaney, Phoebe—you stay with your mother!"

Damon scooped Eliza into his arms, lifting her onto the front pew, shielding her from the sight of the congregation. The three hundred mobsters, killers, and corrupt politicians immediately turned their backs, forming a living wall of black overcoats around the altar, guarding the sanctuary doors with drawn weapons to give their queen her dignity.

"Eliza, look at me," Damon pleaded, tears streaming freely down his face, washing away the blood and soot on his skin. He took her trembling hand, kissing her knuckles over and over. "I'm right here. Your family is right here. We're not letting you go."

"Alexander..." she sobbed, crying out as the final, agonizing contraction seized her.

"He's going to live," Phoebe whispered, holding Eliza’s other hand, kissing her temple. "You're our mother, Eliza. You fought for all of us. Now fight for him."