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

The Longest Night

The ambulance ride was a blur of chaotic noise and terrifying flashes of red light.

J Park sat huddled in the corner of the vehicle, clutching Leo so tightly against her chest that she could feel the rapid flutter of his tiny heart beating against her own.

But her eyes were fixed on the stretcher in the center of the cramped space.

Dante was pale—a stark, ghostly white that made his dark hair look like ink spilled on a sheet.

The paramedics were moving with frantic urgency, shouting numbers and medical terms that J Park couldn’t understand.

“BP is dropping! We need another line! Pressure on the wound! Keep him with us!”

Dante’s shirt, usually crisp and white, was soaked in crimson. It was a terrifying amount of blood.

He hadn’t just been grazed. The bullet from Marco’s gun had done damage, and the fall from the balcony had torn something inside him.

“Dante,” J Park whispered, her voice lost under the siren’s wail.

She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers hovering over his boot.

“Please.”

He didn’t move. The man who had commanded rooms with a single glance, the man who had terrified the most dangerous criminals in New York, looked mortal.

He looked broken.

For the first time since that fateful wrong-number text, J Park wasn’t thinking about rent or formula or the cold.

She was thinking about the way his eyes softened when he looked at Leo.

She was thinking about the rough warmth of his hand when he pulled her from the edge of panic.

She realized with a jolt of nausea that had nothing to do with the swaying ambulance that she wasn’t just afraid of losing her protector.

She was afraid of losing him.

The waiting room at New York Presbyterian was a sterile purgatory. It smelled of bleach and old coffee, a scent that would forever remind J Park of fear.

It had been six hours. Leo had finally fallen asleep in his stroller, exhausted by the trauma of the night.

J Park sat in a hard plastic chair, staring at her hands. There was dried blood on her fingers—Dante’s blood.

She hadn’t washed it off. It felt like if she washed it off, she was admitting he was gone.

The double doors swung open. J Park jumped up, her heart hammering, but it wasn’t a doctor.

It was Luca. The massive head of security looked different.

He wasn’t wearing his usual sunglasses. His suit was rumpled, and there was a grim set to his jaw.

He carried two cups of coffee and a paper bag.

“Mrs. Richie,” Luca corrected himself, handing her a cup. “You should drink. Sugar and cream. You’re in shock.”

J Park took the cup, her hands shaking so hard the liquid sloshed over the rim.

“Is he—have you heard anything?”

“He’s in surgery,” Luca said, sitting heavily in the chair next to her. “The bullet missed the heart, but it nicked the subclavian artery. He lost a lot of blood, and he tore his rotator cuff catching the boy. But the doctors, they say he’s a fighter. I’ve seen him survive worse.”

J Park nodded, tears pricking her eyes.

“And the others?”

Luca’s expression hardened. The mask of the professional soldier slipped back into place.

“Marco is in the morgue,” he said bluntly. “No one will mourn him. As for Sophia Valente—” a dark satisfaction curled his lip “—she is currently in a holding cell at the FBI field office.”

“We handed over the recordings from the nursery. Attempted murder, kidnapping, extortion, and thanks to some files Dante kept as insurance, her father is being indicted for racketeering. The Valente empire is crumbling as we speak. They will never touch you again.”

“I don’t care about them,” J Park whispered. “I just want him to wake up.”

Luca looked at her. He studied her face, the genuine grief etched into her features.

“You know,” Luca said quietly, staring at the floor. “When he got that text, I told him to ignore it. I told him it was a scam, a trap.”

J Park looked at him.

“He told me to shut up,” Luca chuckled sadly. “He said, ‘A man who ignores a hungry child is no man at all.'”

“He didn’t come to Brooklyn to play hero, J Park. He went because he saw himself in you. He saw the struggle.”

Luca reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. He placed it on the table between them.

“Dante gave me instructions before the summit. Contingency plans. If anything happened to him, you are to take this. There’s a passport, a deed to a house in Tuscany, and an account number with enough money to raise Leo like a prince. You’re free, J Park. The contract is void.”

J Park stared at the envelope. It was everything she had dreamed of three weeks ago.

Safety, freedom, an escape from the crushing poverty that had defined her life. She reached out and picked up the envelope.

Then she stood up, walked to the trash can in the corner of the room, and dropped it inside.

Luca’s eyes widened.

“Ms. Richie?”

“I’m not going to Tuscany,” J Park said, her voice trembling but fierce. “And I’m not leaving him. He jumped off a balcony for my son. I’m not walking out on him because he’s bleeding.”

The Promotion

The sun was rising over the Hudson River when the surgeon finally came out. He looked exhausted.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said, removing his cap. “He’s in the ICU. He’s waking up. You can see him for five minutes. Family only.”

“I’m his fiancée,” J Park said without hesitation.

The room was dim, lit only by the rhythmic green glow of the heart monitor. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Dante lay in the center of the bed, looking frustratingly small against the white sheets.

His shoulder was heavily bandaged, his arm in a sling. Oxygen tubes ran into his nose.

J Park walked to the bedside. Her legs felt like lead.

She reached out and touched his good hand, which rested on the blanket. His skin was warm.

His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, they opened.

The dark espresso eyes were hazy, drugged, but they focused on her.

“J Park,” he rasped. His voice was like gravel.

“I’m here,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “I’m right here.”

“Leo?”

“He’s safe. He’s outside with Luca. He’s perfect.”

Dante let out a breath that was half sigh, half groan. He tried to shift, wincing at the pain.

“Why are you here? Where else would I be? You should be gone,” Dante murmured, closing his eyes again. “The deal finished. Marco is dead. You’re safe. Take the money. Go.”

“Shut up,” J Park said softly.

Dante’s eyes flew open. He wasn’t used to being told to shut up.

“You are an idiot, Dante Moretti,” she said, tears finally spilling over her cheeks. “You think this was just a deal to me? You think I can just watch you almost die and then hop on a plane to Italy?”

“I am dangerous,” Dante said, the words coming out slow and heavy. “You saw: bullets, blood, enemies. It doesn’t stop, J Park. Today it was Marco; tomorrow it will be someone else. I am a monster. You and the boy—you belong in the light.”

“Then bring the light to me,” she countered. “Don’t push me away.”

“I ruin things,” he whispered, his defenses crumbling under the morphine and the exhaustion. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

“You heated a bottle with a lighter,” J Park smiled through her tears. “You held him while I slept. You jumped into the dark for him. You are exactly what we need.”

She leaned down, careful of the wires, and pressed her forehead against his.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dante. You hired me to be your fiancée. I’m not quitting until I get the promotion.”

A faint, weak smile touched the corner of Dante’s lips. He turned his hand over, interlacing his fingers with hers.

“Stubborn,” he muttered.

“I learned from the best,” she replied.