Carrying My Ex-Fiancé’s Mafia Uncle’s Baby

Lena POV

The jagged base of the whiskey glass slipped from my bloody fingers and broke again against the floorboards. The two guards who had been gripping my arms backed away so fast they nearly hit the wall.

"Boss," the dealer stammered.

The man in the tailored black suit ignored the title. He held out one hand. "The guarantee form. Marco's tabs. All of them."

The dealer shoved the leather folder across the green felt table.

The stranger opened it, scanning the typed terms and the blue signature at the bottom. The black-gold crest ring on his right hand caught the light when he turned the page.

"Is this your signature?" he asked me.

I pressed my bleeding knuckles against my apron. "The ink is mine. The contract isn't. I signed the hotel's catering agreement last week. Marco copied the signature."

"You did not guarantee fifty thousand dollars tonight?"

"I didn't guarantee a cent."

He shut the folder. "Then the guarantee is fraudulent. Freeze the account. No collection activity against her."

The dealer swallowed. "Understood, Mr. Moretti. We didn't know she was connected to—"

"She isn't collateral," the man cut in. "And nobody in this room touches her again."

My spine hit the steel door behind me. "Moretti?"

His attention returned to me. For one strange second, his gaze settled on the silver L.R. pendant at my collarbone before lifting to my face.

"Marco is my nephew," he said. "I'm Adrian Moretti."

Marco had mentioned an uncle exactly once: the relative who ran the family's international shipping interests and had spent most of the last decade in Europe. Marco had gone pale just saying his name.

"I came back three days ago to audit the family accounts," Adrian continued. "I came downstairs for the casino ledgers. I did not expect to find my nephew using his fiancée as a signature bank."

"Ex-fiancée."

His eyes flicked to my bare ring finger. "Understood."

A sharp sting shot through my knee when I shifted my weight. Blood had begun running down my calf from a cut I hadn't noticed during the struggle. Adrian took off his suit jacket and held it out without stepping closer.

"The lobby is full of guests, hotel security, and at least three entertainment reporters," he said. "Marco has already told security you're unstable."

"Of course he has."

"You have three choices. Call someone you trust to collect you at the loading dock. Let my female security officer take you to an emergency clinic. Or use my penthouse long enough to clean the cut and leave through the private garage when you're ready."

I stared at the jacket. "And what do you get?"

"Nothing."

"Nobody in your family does anything for nothing."

Something unreadable crossed his face. "Then consider it an audit expense. Marco created the liability. I'm containing it."

The answer was cold enough to sound believable.

I took the jacket.

Adrian walked me to a private elevator without touching me. At the penthouse door, a woman in a charcoal suit handed him a first-aid kit and a garment bag, then disappeared down the hall. No hovering. No questions.

"Bathroom is through there," Adrian said. "The dress is from the hotel boutique. Tags are still attached. Keep it or leave it. Your choice."

I locked the bathroom door before I peeled off the ruined satin gown.

Under the bright mirror lights, the night looked worse on my skin than it had felt in the dark. Finger-shaped bruises colored my upper arms. My knee was sliced but shallow. My knuckles were raw from the broken glass. I cleaned everything myself, taped gauze over the cut, and changed into the plain black dress from the garment bag.

When I came out, Adrian was at the dining table with the casino ledger open in front of him. A glass of water waited at the opposite chair.

"I made copies of the forged guarantee," he said. "The original stays with the casino until my attorneys secure it. You should photograph every page before anyone has a chance to rewrite history."

He slid the folder toward me.

That, more than the expensive room or the guards outside, made me sit down.

I photographed the guarantee, Marco's new fifty-thousand-dollar credit line, and the timestamp showing he had opened it less than an hour before our engagement announcement. Beside his name was a notation authorizing collection from me if he defaulted.

My hands started shaking.

"He knew," I whispered. "He knew he was going upstairs with Celeste, and he opened another debt in my name first."

Adrian said nothing.

My phone lit up with twelve missed calls from Marco. A new message appeared while I watched.

Come downstairs and stop embarrassing yourself. We can still fix this if you behave.

A second message followed.

If you leave with him, don't expect anyone to believe your version tomorrow.

I laughed once, and the sound came out broken.

"Three years," I said. "I paid his rent. His tuition. His exam fees. I picked up double shifts while he told everyone he was building our future. Tonight I served drinks at my own engagement party because he said the staff was short."

Adrian's jaw tightened, but he didn't offer me pity. "Do you want him allowed upstairs?"

"No."

He picked up the house phone. "Marco Moretti is not to access this floor tonight. No exceptions."

That was all. No threats. No speech about family honor.

I looked at him across the table. "Why do they call you Boss?"

"Because my father left a business, a family, and a collection of men who confuse loyalty with permission." His mouth flattened. "Someone had to teach them the difference."

"And did it work?"

"Not well enough, apparently."

For the first time that night, I almost smiled.

Adrian rose and placed a keycard beside the water. "The guest room is yours. The private elevator will take you to the garage whenever you want to leave. I'll stay in the study."

He turned away.

"Adrian."

He stopped.

I crossed the room before I could reconsider. Anger still burned through me, but underneath it was something steadier: the need to make one decision that belonged only to me.

I caught his tie and pulled him around.

His hands stayed at his sides. "Lena, you're hurt. You're furious. And I'm Marco's uncle."

"I know exactly who you are."

"That isn't the same as knowing what you want."

I kissed him.

He let me break the kiss first.

"Tell me to stop," he said quietly.

I tightened my fingers in his tie. "I won't."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Only then did his hand settle at my waist, light enough that I could step away if I chose.

I didn't.