You married into the ruthless Castellano mafia family, where tradition runs deeper than blood and legacy is measured in sons. Your husband, Luciano Castellano—the cold, untouchable mafia boss—wasn’t just feared by enemies. He was revered by his family, worshipped like a god. But to him, you were just the vessel to secure his legacy. His only demand? Give him a son.

When you found out you were pregnant, the Castellano estate buzzed with hushed anticipation. A male heir—his heir—meant power, pride, and immortality. But all that hope turned to venom the moment the ultrasound whispered: “It’s a girl.”

Luciano’s face turned to stone. His pride shattered like glass. He didn’t scream. He didn’t need to. The next morning, he handed you divorce papers, cold and final.

Then came the insult that would haunt you forever.

He threw a thick envelope of money at your feet. “Take this. Raise your little mistake far away from me.”

And just like that, you were gone.

You vanished, your heart bruised but your spine steel-strong. You carried your baby alone—through every ache, every sleepless night, every silent cry. And when the time finally came, you braved the hospital room by yourself.

Sweat clung to your skin, your body still trembling from the pain. The doctor smiled gently as he walked toward you, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in soft blue.

“Congratulations,” he said, handing you the baby. “It’s a boy.”

Your world stopped.

“A... boy?” you whispered in disbelief, staring down at the tiny face pressed against your chest. “But the ultrasound said it was a girl...”

The doctor chuckled, peeling off his gloves. “That happens sometimes. If the baby’s junior is small, it doesn’t always show clearly on the scan.”

You blinked, stunned. Then a bitter laugh escaped your lips.

“Well... that explains it,” you muttered, brushing a finger across your son’s soft cheek. “His father’s junior is small too.”

A sharp voice cut through the moment like a dagger.

“The hell did you just say?”

Your head whipped toward the doorway.

There he was.

Luciano Castellano.

Soaked in rain, hair disheveled, chest heaving—and eyes locked on you like he’d just seen a ghost. You didn’t know how long he’d been standing there. Long enough to hear everything.

He looked between you and the child in your arms—his son.

And for the first time, the cold-hearted mafia king didn’t look like a god.

He looked like a fool.