I Raised The Mafia Boss’s Secret Daughter For Five Years—Until He Caught Her At The Airport

The water rose to our waists as we pressed deeper into the belly of the city’s drainage network. The air was thick with sulfur and damp concrete, every echo magnifying the sound of our splashing footsteps.

Behind us, distant shouts reverberated through the pipe system. Flashlights flickered far up the curved brick conduit—Dante’s dogs had found the intake chute.

"They're faster than I expected," I whispered, glancing over my shoulder as beams of yellow light cut through the mist.

"Dante brought mercenaries, not just family loyalists," Vincent said, each step costing him dearly. He was growing paler, his dark eyes shadowed with fever. The cold water was seeping into his bandages, risking lethal infection. "Contract killers don't hesitate. They shoot first and count bodies later."

We rounded a heavy iron gate that had been severed with a blowtorch hours prior—one of Vincent’s escape preparations. He slammed the rusted grate shut behind us and threw a heavy steel rod through the latching rings. It wouldn't stop them forever, but it would buy minutes.

Fifty yards ahead, a sliver of gray morning light spilled into the gloom. The smell of exhaust fumes and low-tide river mud cut through the damp stink.

"The spillway," Vincent muttered, his voice dipping lower, his balance faltering. "Marco... should be at the mouth."

We burst out into the raw dawn air beneath the colossal concrete pillars of the industrial shipping canal. Rain misted down from a leaden sky, stinging my cold skin. Idling in the shadows beneath an abandoned rail bridge was a nondescript, mud-spattered black SUV, its engine purring in low, steady readiness.

The rear door flew open instantly. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a scar running through his eyebrow stepped out, an automatic rifle held low against his chest.

"Boss!" Marco rushed forward, his boots throwing up gravel. He reached out to take Vincent’s weight, but Vincent held up a hand, refusing to fully collapse.

"Claire first," Vincent ordered coldly.

Marco looked at me, his eyes wide with relief. "Ma'am. Get inside. We have clean clothes and trauma kits."

I didn't argue. I scrambled into the leather interior, reaching back to pull Vincent in after me. As Marco slammed the door and leaped into the driver’s seat, tires screeched against wet pavement, rocketing us up the access ramp toward the highway.

I tore open the first-aid kit under the seat, ripping open sterile gauze. "Take off your shirt, Vincent. Now."

He leaned his head back against the leather headrest, his chest heaving, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't fight me. As I peeled back the soaked linen shirt, my breath hitched. The surgical dressing over his pelvis was saturated in dark, thick crimson. The sutures had torn during the fall.

"It looks worse than it is," he murmured, his eyes half-closed.

"Stop lying to me!" My voice cracked with five years of buried grief, terror, and fury. My hands trembled as I pressed fresh pads against the wound, applying direct pressure. "You gave up half your strength for Maya, walked into an ambush, and nearly let Dante execute you! If you die now, who protects her?"

Vincent's hand came up slowly, catching my wrist. His grip was cold, but his touch was impossibly gentle.