A Poor Single Mom Texted a Mafia Boss by Mistake Asking for Baby Formula Money–What Happened Next..

The Marks of a Coward

Dante watched them. He leaned against the peeling wall, arms crossed.

He should leave. He had done his good deed; he had balanced the scales of his own conscience.

But then he saw the bruise. It was faint, yellowing on J Park’s collarbone, revealed as her coat slipped down.

Dante’s eyes narrowed. He walked closer, towering over her sitting form.

He reached out and touched the bruise with a single finger. J Park flinched.

“Who did this?” Dante asked.

His voice wasn’t smooth anymore; it was a growl.

“It’s nothing,” J Park said quickly, looking down. “I fell.”

“Liar,” Dante said.

He crouched down so he was eye level with her. The intensity of his gaze made her breath hitch.

“You texted Marco. Is Marco the one who hits you?”

J Park didn’t answer. She didn’t have to; the fear in her eyes was the answer.

Dante stood up slowly. He pulled his phone—the burner—from his pocket.

“Where is he? Please!” J Park begged, clutching Leo. “He’s dangerous. He hangs out with the Red Vipers. If you mess with him—”

Dante let out a dark, dry chuckle. It was a sound void of humor.

“The Red Vipers?”

Dante adjusted his cuffs.

“Honey, the Red Vipers pay me protection money so I don’t wipe them off the map.”

He turned to the remaining guard.

“Tony, stay here. Nobody comes in, nobody goes out. Order food. Anything she wants from Carbone.”

“Wait!” J Park stood up, Leo asleep in her arms now. “Where are you going?”

Dante paused at the door. He looked back at her and, for a second, the darkness in his eyes cleared, replaced by something possessive.

“I’m going to find Marco,” Dante said. “And I’m going to teach him the proper way to respond to a text message.”

Settling the Score

J Park paced the small living room for three hours. The portable heater Luca had brought was humming in the corner, blasting blessed warmth into the apartment.

The gas had turned back on forty minutes after Dante left, miraculously.

On the table sat a feast she hadn’t touched: spicy rigatoni vodka, veal parmesan, and truffle garlic bread from Carbone—a restaurant she knew you needed a reservation six months in advance to get into.

Tony, the massive guard, stood by the door like a statue.

“Is he—is he going to kill him?” J Park asked Tony for the tenth time.

Tony cracked a smile.

“Mr. Moretti doesn’t kill people over missed child support, Ma’am. He’s a businessman, but he does have a strict moral code about hitting women.”

At 3:00 a.m., the lock clicked. J Park jumped up.

Dante walked in. He looked exactly the same as when he left, except his knuckles were bruised and raw.

He took off his coat and threw it over a chair. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope.

He tossed it onto the coffee table next to the untouched pasta.

“What is that?” J Park asked.

“$50,000,” Dante said casually, pouring himself a glass of water from her tap. “Marco decided to liquidate his assets. He also decided to leave New York permanently.”

J Park stared at the envelope.

“He gave this to you?”

“Let’s say he was very eager to donate to Leo’s college fund once I explained the alternative,” Dante said.

He wiped his hand with a handkerchief.

“You don’t have to worry about him ever again.”

J Park felt a wave of relief so strong her knees buckled. She sat down on the sofa.

“Thank you. I don’t know how to thank you. I’ll pay you back for the food and the formula.”

Dante watched her. He saw the way she looked at the money—not with greed, but with safety.

He realized something. He didn’t want to leave.

This tiny, broken apartment felt more real than his penthouse in Manhattan.

“I don’t want your money, J Park,” Dante said.

He sat in the armchair opposite her.

“But I do have a problem, and I think you can solve it.”

J Park tensed.

“What kind of problem?”

“My family. The business is under pressure. The Commission, the other families—they think I’m too young, too volatile. They want to see stability. They want to see me settled down.”

“There’s a summit next week. If I show up alone, they challenge my authority. If I show up with a fiancée—a woman with a child who I am clearly devoted to—they back off.”

J Park’s eyes went wide.

“You want me to pretend?”

“I want you to come live in my house,” Dante said. “You and Leo. You’ll have security, food, nannies, whatever you need. You pretend to be mine for three months until the heat dies down.”

“And if I say no?”

Dante leaned forward.

“Then you keep the fifty grand. I walk out that door, and you hope the Red Vipers don’t come looking for revenge because Marco is gone.”

“Because once I leave, you’re alone again.”

It was a threat, but it was also the truth. J Park looked at Leo sleeping in the stroller.

She looked at the cold window. She looked at the man who had terrified her, fed her, and avenged her in the span of four hours.

“Three months?” J Park asked.

“Three months,” Dante promised. “Strictly business.”

J Park took a deep breath. She reached out and picked up the envelope of cash.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

Dante smiled, and for the first time, it reached his eyes.

“Good. Pack a bag, J Park. We’re leaving.”

The Fortress

The ride to Dante’s home was silent. J Park sat in the back of a bulletproof Cadillac Escalade, gripping the leather seat.

Leo was asleep in a car seat that cost more than her rent, installed by Luca with surprising gentleness.

They didn’t head to a penthouse in the city. They drove north out to Long Island to the Gold Coast.

They pulled up to a massive iron gate that groaned open to reveal a sprawling estate.

It looked like something out of The Great Gatsby, but with more security cameras and armed guards patrolling the perimeter with Dobermans.

“Welcome to the fortress,” Dante said, his voice void of emotion.

Inside, the house was a museum of cold marble and dark wood. It was beautiful, but it felt empty.

“Mrs. Rosie!” Dante called out.

A stern-faced older woman in a gray uniform appeared.

“Show Miss Reichi to the east wing. Prepare the nursery next to her room and burn those clothes she’s wearing.”

J Park flushed. She was wearing her worn-out jeans and a stained hoodie.

“I can wash them!”

“You represent me now, JP Park,” Dante said, turning to face her. “No one in this house wears rags. Tomorrow, a stylist from Bergdorf Goodman will be here. You will buy everything: dresses, jewelry, shoes.”

“If you are going to be the fiancée of Dante Moretti, you need to look the part.”

“And what is my part, exactly?” J Park asked, finding a shred of courage.

Dante stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the sandalwood and gunpowder on him.

“Your part is to look at me like I’m the only man in the world. Your part is to smile when I tell you to smile and to be silent when I’m talking business.”

“Do that, and you and the boy live like royalty. Fail, and the wolves outside these gates will eat you alive.”

He turned and walked into his study, slamming the heavy oak door.