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

My blood turned to ice water in my veins.

I didn't head for the powder room. I ran.

I pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the VIP hall, my heart thrashing violently in my chest, looking for Antoine. But the ballroom was a sea of black ties and silk dresses, and Antoine was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, Donovan appeared at my elbow, his scarred face grim.

"Miss Marsh, we have to go," he said quietly, grabbing my arm.

"Where is Antoine?!" I choked out.

"A fire broke out at the St. Bernard shipping terminal," Donovan grunted, steering me toward the side exit. "Boss already left with six men. He ordered me to get you back to the estate immediately."

It’s a trap. The realization hit me like a physical blow.

"No!" I pulled back against his grip. "Donovan, listen to me! The fire is a decoy! Victor set it to get Antoine away from the house! They're coming for the children right now!"

Donovan froze, his dark eyes sharpening into dangerous slits. "What did you say?"

"Victor hired hitmen! They're going to the mansion right now to take the triplets and kill me!" I yelled over the brass band playing inside. "Call Antoine! Tell him to turn around!"

Donovan pulled out his radio, clicking the frequency. "Boss! Boss, do you copy? It’s a feint at the terminal! The target is the house!"

Static crackled over the speaker. "...Signal jammed... repeat... Victor’s men barricaded the causeway..."

"The line is jammed," Donovan hissed, his jaw clenching. "We're on our own."

Twenty minutes later, the black SUV squealed around the corner of Prytania Street.

The front iron gates of the estate had been forced open, swinging loose on broken hinges. The main porch light was smashed, plunging the front façade into darkness.

"Stay in the car," Donovan ordered, pulling a heavy Glock pistol from his shoulder holster.

"Like hell I will," I snapped, kicking off my emerald heels. I grabbed a heavy brass tire iron from under the rear seat passenger well. "My babies are in that house."

We slipped through the dark servant entrance at the side of the house. The interior was deathly quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer.

Donovan moved ahead, clearing the dining room.

Suddenly, a shot echoed through the hallway. BANG!

Donovan went down with a groan, clutching his thigh as blood bloomed across his trousers.

From the shadow of the grand staircase stepped Victor’s thick-necked hitman, holding a suppressed pistol.

"Found the fat girl," the man sneered, raising his gun toward my chest. "Victor said you were feisty."

Fear didn't paralyze me. It turned into pure, blinding rage.

I didn't wait for him to pull the trigger. I swung the brass tire iron with everything I had—thirty-two years of hard labor, carrying heavy diner trays, and fighting for every scrap of respect I’d ever earned.

The heavy metal bar caught him square across the side of his knee with a sickening CRACK!

The man screamed, collapsing onto the marble floor. Before he could raise his weapon again, I brought the tire iron down on his wrist, knocking the pistol skittering across the floor. I kicked the gun under the heavy oak sideboard and slammed the butt of the iron into his temple, knocking him unconscious.

I panted, my hair coming down around my shoulders, my green velvet dress torn at the hem.