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

The Rival

The next week was a blur of silk, diamonds, and terror. J Park was poked, prodded, and polished.

Her hair was treated until it shone like obsidian. Her skin was scrubbed until it glowed.

When she looked in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the exhausted waitress from Brooklyn. She saw a woman who looked dangerous.

But the real danger wasn’t the makeover. It was the visitor who arrived on Thursday.

J Park was in the solarium feeding Leo when the glass doors slid open. A woman walked in.

She was tall, blonde, and wearing a red dress that looked like it was painted on. She held a martini glass and looked at J Park with pure, unadulterated venom.

“So,” the woman said, her voice like shattered glass. “You’re the stray cat Dante picked up.”

J Park stood up instinctively, shielding Leo.

“I’m his fiancée.”

The woman laughed. It was a cruel sound.

“Fiancée? Honey, Dante doesn’t marry. He conquers. I’m Sophia Valente. My father runs the Port Authority. I’ve been warming Dante’s bed for three years. We have an understanding.”

Sophia walked closer, looking at Leo with disgust.

“And he certainly doesn’t play daddy to another man’s bastard.”

J Park felt the heat rise in her chest.

The old J Park would have looked down. The new J Park, who had spent a week watching Dante command a room, felt a spark of anger.

“If you have an understanding,” J Park said, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm, “then why is there a ring on my finger and not yours?”

She held up her hand. The five-carat, emerald-cut diamond Dante had given her—a family heirloom—caught the sunlight.

Sophia’s eyes narrowed into slits. She took a step forward, raising her hand as if to slap J Park.

“Don’t.”

A deep voice rumbled from the doorway. Dante stood there.

He was in his shirt sleeves, his tie undone. He looked tired, but his eyes were alert.

“Dante, darling!” Sophia’s voice changed instantly to a purr. “I was just welcoming your guest.”

“She’s not a guest, Sophia,” Dante said, walking into the room.

He didn’t look at Sophia. He walked straight to J Park.

He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind J Park’s ear. His touch was electric.

“She’s the future Mrs. Moretti. And you are trespassing.”

“You can’t be serious!” Sophia hissed, the mask slipping. “She’s a nobody! A waitress! My father will—”

“Your father knows that if he crosses me, I’ll sink his ships,” Dante said calmly.

He turned to Sophia, his eyes cold.

“Get out. If you ever speak to her or my son like that again, being a Valente won’t save you.”

“My son?” J Park’s heart skipped a beat.

Sophia stormed out, smashing her martini glass on the marble floor as she left. Dante didn’t flinch at the sound.

He looked down at J Park.

“Did she hurt you?”

“No,” J Park whispered. “Why did you call Leo your son?”

Dante looked at the baby, who was gumming on a teething ring. For a second, the mask of the Don slipped.

“Because the world needs to believe it. And because he deserves better than the father he had.”

He turned to leave but stopped.

“The summit is tomorrow night. Wear the black dress and—J Park?”

“Yes?”

“You held your ground against Sophia. Good. You’ll need that fire tomorrow.”

The Summit

The summit was held at Cipriani Wall Street, a venue of soaring columns and old money.

But tonight, the money wasn’t just old; it was blood-stained. The room was filled with the most dangerous men in New York.

The five families were all represented, along with the Russian Mob and the Yakuza. The air was thick with cigar smoke and tension.

J Park wore a black velvet gown with a slit up the thigh and a diamond choker that felt like a collar. She held Dante’s arm so tightly her knuckles were white.

“Breathe,” Dante murmured against her ear.

His hand rested on the small of her back, his thumb tracing circles on her skin. It was meant to be a performance, but it felt scorching hot.

“If they smell fear, they attack. Look them in the eye.”

They moved through the crowd. Men kissed Dante’s ring. Women glared at J Park.

Then the music stopped. At the center table sat Don Salvatoreé, the head of the Commission.

He was a fat man with eyes like a shark. He banged his cane on the floor.

“Moretti!” Salvatoreé boomed.

The room went silent.

“You bring a stranger to our table. Rumor says she is a charity case. A stray you found in the gutter.”

Dante stiffened. He slowly guided J Park to the center of the room.

“Rumors are for old women, Salvatoreé,” Dante said, his voice projecting to the back of the hall. “J Park is my life. She is the mother of my heir.”

A ripple of whispers went through the room. Salvatoreé laughed.

“Your heir? We checked the records, Dante. The boy was born six months ago. Nine months before that, you were in federal custody in Chicago. The math doesn’t work.”

The room gasped. This was a direct challenge.

If Dante lied, he looked weak. If he admitted the truth, he looked like a fool raising another man’s child.

J Park felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at Dante.

He was completely still.

“You question my blood?” Dante asked, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

“I question your judgment,” Salvatoreé sneered. “Prove she means something to you, or admit you brought a whore to the summit.”

Dante didn’t shout. He didn’t pull a gun.

Instead, he turned to J Park. He cupped her face in both hands.

His eyes searched hers, intense and burning.

“Forgive me,” he whispered so only she could hear.

Then he kissed her. It wasn’t a stage kiss; it was an act of possession.

He crushed her mouth to his, his tongue sweeping past her lips, claiming her, devouring her.

One of his hands tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other pulled her body flush against his.

J Park forgot the crowd. She forgot the danger.

She melted into him, her hands grabbing the lapels of his tuxedo. It was terrifying, and it was the most passionate moment of her life.

When Dante finally pulled back, J Park was breathless, her lips swollen, her eyes dazed.

Dante looked at Salvatoreé, keeping his arm wrapped tight around J Park’s waist.

“She is mine,” Dante declared, his voice ringing with authority. “The boy is mine. Anyone who questions it again declares war on the Moretti family. And I don’t lose wars.”

Salvatoreé stared at them for a long moment. He saw the genuine heat, the raw connection.

He nodded slowly.

“Very well. To the future Mrs. Moretti.”

The tension broke. The music started again.

Waiters rushed out with champagne. Dante led J Park to a balcony for fresh air.

Her heart was racing a mile a minute.

“That was—” J Park started.

“Necessary,” Dante said, cutting her off.

But he didn’t let go of her hand. He was looking at her with a hunger that hadn’t been there before.

“You did well, Jpac.”

“You kissed me,” she said.

“I had to make it look real,” he said, turning away.

But she saw his jaw clench.

“It felt real,” she whispered.

Dante froze. He turned back to her.

The air between them crackled. He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek.

“J Park, you don’t know who I am. I destroy everything I touch. Do not fall for the act.”

“I don’t think it’s an act anymore,” she challenged him.