Return of the Queen: He Chose His Mistress Over My Son

My five-year-old son stumbled into the hall, a woman's handprint blazing on his cheek. My husband, the acting Boss of the Romano Syndicate, dismissed the assault as a reflex. His mistress warned me to teach my brat some manners. My mother-in-law told me to look the other way.

They thought I was weak. They had no idea that my father had only lent Franco the crown—and the loan just expired.

The vendetta had begun.

Chapter 1

Clara POV

The front door opened just as my telephone began to vibrate, and my five-year-old son, Leo, stumbled into the hall. On his cheek was the livid, blistering print of a hand. My phone showed a message from my husband's mistress. It advised me to teach my brat some manners before she was forced to teach him a real lesson.

I stared at the screen, where the letters seemed to glow with a phosphorescent heat. A band of iron tightened around my ribs, making each breath a shallow, difficult thing.

Franco Moretti was not just my husband; he was the acting Boss of the Romano Syndicate. He was a man whose whisper could have a city block leveled, a predator who had painted the streets of Chicago in blood to secure his throne. He possessed a dark, violent gravity that made politicians perspire and rival gangs shrink from his path.

I had married him four years ago, an arrangement decreed by my father, the legendary Don Salvatore, on his deathbed. I was to be the quiet anchor to his storm. I had played the docile wife to perfection, a placid shadow that allowed him to wear the crown.

What Franco never knew—what no one in the Syndicate knew—was that my father's "deathbed decree" came with a second, secret clause. I was not just his anchor. I was his test. And tonight, Franco Moretti had finally failed.

But looking at my son, the script I had so carefully performed for four years dissolved into a page of unreadable characters, leaving only a high, piercing tone in my ears.

Leo stood in the doorway of the living room, his small shoulders shaking with quiet, hiccuping sobs that left his face flushed and streaked with tears.

My telephone fell to the floor. I crossed the thick carpet in three strides and went to my knees before him. My hands hovered over his face, afraid of the swollen, angry skin.

"Mommy, she hit me," he said, his voice a broken whisper.

A knot of cold dread tightened in my stomach. "Who, my dear?"

"The lady in Daddy's office," he hiccuped, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "I only wanted to show Daddy my new drawing. The guards at the casino let me go up. But she was sitting on Daddy's desk. She yelled at me for not knocking. Then... she slapped me."

A fine, needle-like sensation prickled its way up my neck and over my scalp; the saliva in my mouth seemed to vanish. The casino was our legitimate front, but the executive suite was Franco's sanctuary.

"And what did your father do?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.

"He told me I shouldn't have interrupted," Leo said, his gaze dropping to his shoes. His lower lip began to tremble. "He said I broke the rules."

A cold, heavy silence descended. The maternal warmth in my veins receded, replaced by something ancient and hard. It was the blood of a Romano, waking from a long slumber.

I pulled Leo into a tight embrace, burying my face in his hair and breathing in the scent of his shampoo. I kissed his forehead, my lips lingering for a second before I rose to my feet.

I walked to the coffee table and retrieved my phone, dialing Franco's private line. He answered on the second ring, his voice laced with irritation.

"Clara, I am in a meeting. You have five minutes."

"Your mistress struck our son," I stated, the words flat and devoid of inflection.

A loud sigh came through the receiver. "Do not be dramatic. Leo startled Isabella. It was a reflex. He must learn that he cannot simply barge into my workspace."

"You allowed a whore to lay her hands on the heir to the Romano Syndicate," I replied. The plastic shell of the telephone groaned in my palm, and a vein jumped on the back of my hand.

I heard a woman's soft crying in the background. "Oh Franco, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to." Her feigned, whining tone made my skin crawl.

"She did not mean to?" I cut in, my voice slicing through her performance. "Then I suppose it was someone else who sent me a message from her telephone five minutes ago, telling me to 'teach my brat some manners before she taught him a real lesson'?"

The crying stopped, replaced by a sharp, audible intake of breath.

"You have five minutes to bring her to this house." I gripped the phone tighter. I emptied my lungs of air, pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth for a long second, and when I spoke again, the words had no rise or fall. "She will kneel on my floor and apologize to my son. If she fails to do so, you will no longer be the Boss of this family."

Franco let out a harsh laugh. "You are losing your mind, Clara. I am the Don. You do not give me ultimatums."

I pulled the phone from my ear without a word. My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped the clock icon. The stopwatch interface appeared.

I pressed start.

The numbers began their descent, marking the end of my long submission. What Franco did not know—what he had never bothered to learn—was that my father had not left him the Syndicate. He had only lent it to him, with a clause that expired the moment his daughter said it did.