The Mafia Don’s Triplets Had Never Spoken—Then They Saw the Plus-Size Waitress and Cried “Mama”

I didn't sleep a wink for the rest of the night.

I hid the micro-SD card and Isabella’s note deep inside the lining of my old canvas tote bag—the one I’d brought from my diner days. I kept the bag locked inside my personal closet, but the weight of that secret pressed down on my shoulders like lead.

At seven in the morning, the heavy mahogany front door clicked open down in the foyer.

Antoine was back.

I walked out to the grand staircase balcony, carrying Camille on my hip while Elias and Theo trailed behind me in their soft fleece footies, clutching my legs.

Antoine stood in the entryway below. He was wearing the same black suit from the night before, his dark tie loosened, his jaw dark with heavy stubble. He looked lethal, exhausted, and intensely solitary. Beside him stood Donovan, his chief security chief, whispering sharply into a satellite phone.

Antoine looked up.

His hazel eyes caught mine, and for a fraction of a second, the harsh, cold mask he wore for the world crumbled. A look of sheer, raw relief swept across his face.

"Della," he called out, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep.

He took the marble stairs two at a time, ignoring Donovan entirely. When he reached the landing, he didn't stop until he was standing right in front of me. The scent of rain, gunpowder, and cedarwood radiated from his coat.

"Did they sleep?" he asked, his dark gaze searching my face, then dropping to Camille, who let out a sweet, gurgling sound and reached her tiny hand out to pat his rough jaw.

"They slept six hours straight," I said softly. "They had some warm milk and apple puree at six."

Antoine reached out, his large, calloused fingers gently cupping Camille's small head before his knuckles brushed against my cheek. The touch was so light, so unexpectedly tender, that my breath hitched in my throat.

"You look tired," he said quietly.

"I'm fine," I lied. "You look like you've been to war."

"I have been," he said grimly. He looked past me toward the nursery. "My uncle Victor is coming for breakfast. He wants to meet the woman who turned my household upside down."

My stomach tightened into a knot. Victor. The name written in Isabella's blood-red ink.

"I'll have the kids ready," I said, keeping my voice steady.

"No," Antoine commanded softly, his hand resting on my forearm. The heat of his palm burned through my cotton sleeve. "You sit at the table with us, Della."

"Antoine, I'm the nanny—"

"You are the woman keeping my children alive," he interrupted, his eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce intensity. "You sit at my table."

An hour later, I sat in the formal dining room under a crystal chandelier that could have bought my old apartment building.

Victor Maro sat across from me. He was a man in his late fifties with slicked-back gray hair, immaculate silver cufflinks, and eyes as cold and dead as a winter swamp. He cut his poached egg with surgical precision, his gaze darting between Antoine and me.

"A waitress, Antoine?" Victor said smoothly, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. "You brought a diner girl into the main residence to raise the heirs of the Maro family? The board is already uneasy about your handling of the port contract in Algiers. This looks... impulsive."

"The children spoke their first words to her, Victor," Antoine said, his tone dripping with quiet menace as he buttered a piece of toast. "They haven't spoken a word to you in six months."

Victor’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention directly to me. "Miss Marsh, isn't it? A bit out of your depth, I imagine. High-society households require a certain... discretion. I hope you aren't poking your nose into things that don't concern you."

The threat was subtle, wrapped in polite tone, but I felt it like a knife against my ribs.

"My only concern is the children's safety, Mr. Maro," I said, looking him dead in the eye while taking a slow sip of my orange juice. "And I have a very sharp eye for details."

That night, after Victor left, I took a small flashlight and swept the nursery.

I looked at the high, ornate crown molding above the door. Tucked inside the decorative wooden leaves of the plasterwork was a tiny, glass lens no bigger than the head of a pin.

A hidden camera.