The Don's Secret Wife: Too Late to Claim Us

My husband doesn't love me. He cares even less for the boy who carries his blood.

On the day I gave birth to his heir, Rhys Calloway didn't even glance at the bassinet. The ruthless Don of the Calloway Syndicate simply had a soldier place the child in my arms before walking out, eager to return to the violence of his empire.

But tonight, the ice finally broke. His former fiancée—the woman he had actually intended to crown—was returning from Europe.

Rhys came home reeking of aged bourbon, his dark eyes glassy with a terrifying euphoria. For the very first time, he actually scooped our son into his arms, a rare, chilling laugh vibrating in his chest.

Startled, Leo clung to the broad shoulders of the man he was forbidden to claim as a father.

He looked down at me, his voice a terrified whisper in the cavernous foyer.

"Mama, what's wrong with him? Why is Sir acting like this?"

I knelt, gently pulling my son from Rhys's slackening grip.

"The woman he truly loves is coming home, baby," I whispered, fighting the sting of tears. "Which means our time here is up. We have to pack."

...

After putting Leo to bed, I retreated to my room. I locked the door, opened my laptop, and began drafting the divorce papers.

This year marked our seventh anniversary. Seven years of a ghost marriage, unacknowledged by the Capos, hidden from the allied families. Seven years of sleeping in separate wings of his fortress.

Tonight, the illusion shattered entirely. I was finally ready to sever the tie.

A soft knock pulled me from the glow of the screen.

The door crept open, revealing my seven-year-old son. He was clutching a airplane model to his chest, his eyes wide and shimmering with unspoken grief.

"Mama, do we really have to leave the territory?" he asked, stepping into the room. "But... he held me tonight. Doesn't that mean he's starting to want me around?"

I froze. A phantom ache gripped my chest.

In the seven years we had survived in this stronghold, Rhys had never permitted Leo to call him Father.

When Leo was two, Rhys dragged him along to inspect a shipment at the docks. Surrounded by hardened lieutenants and dock workers, my baby boy had stumbled forward and joyfully babbled the word "Papa."

The silence that followed was lethal. Rhys's jaw locked. He coldly set the toddler down on the unforgiving, splintered wooden planks of the pier and ordered him to walk the two miles back to the car on his own. By the time I reached my son, his palms and knees were stripped of skin, bleeding onto the gravel.

When Leo turned four, he begged for months until Rhys finally agreed to take him to the Feast of San Gennaro—a street festival heavily guarded by our soldiers. In the suffocating crowd, Leo, overwhelmed by the chaos, instinctively reached up, grasped Rhys's hand, and cried out for his "Dad."

Rhys didn't yell. He merely uncurled his fingers, letting go. He left a four-year-old boy stranded in a dangerous, shifting mob of strangers. When the enforcers finally found him an hour later, Leo was huddled behind a vendor's tent in a dark alley, hyperventilating, his face stained with dirt and tears.

Since that day, my son learned the unforgiving law of survival in the Calloway empire: he addressed his father only as Sir. Our existence in this estate wasn't a family; it was a lingering, pathetic joke to the men who guarded us.

Thinking of those scars, I felt a familiar, suffocating sorrow. I pulled Leo against me, burying my face in his shoulder.

"Leo, sweetheart... the woman he always meant to put a ring on is coming home. We can't overstay our welcome in his territory anymore."

The light drained from Leo's eyes. Desperation seized him as he shoved the airplane model directly into my line of sight.

"But look! He gave me this tonight. If he doesn't want me, why would he give me a gift?"

His face was twisted in a desperate plea. He was begging me to validate the one thing he craved more than air—the approval of the Don, the love of a father.

I opened my mouth, but the words turned to ash in my throat.

What could I possibly say? How could I tell him that Rhys was only generous tonight because his blood was singing with the thought of another woman's return? How could I explain that this discarded trinket was merely the collateral damage of a man intoxicated by the ghost of his past, not a symbol of paternal love?

I couldn't.

I pressed a kiss to his forehead, subtly turning my face away to wipe a stray tear before it could fall.

This was the curse of a mother in the underworld—maintaining a devastating facade, even as your own heart was being carved out.

Forcing a gentle, steady smile, I looked into his eyes.

"Leo... if I asked you to leave this estate with me, away from his men, away from him... would you come?"

Leo went rigid. He looked down, his voice barely a breath.

"Do we have to disappear forever?" he asked. "I haven't... I haven't ever been allowed to call him Dad out loud yet."

The dam broke. I bit down hard on my lower lip to muffle a sob, tasting copper.

"Leo, please understand. He... he doesn't want our bloodline tied to his legacy. Let me take you away. Let me keep you safe. Please."

Leo slowly pulled the plane back, pressing the metal against his chest.

"Three chances," Leo finally whispered, his tone suddenly devoid of the desperate child he had been moments ago. "I want to give him three more chances. If... if he proves he really doesn't want us, then we vanish. And we never come back."

I closed my eyes. I nodded, locking away the last remnants of my naive hope.

"Okay."

"Three chances, Rhys." I stared blankly at the dark window, speaking to the shadows of his empire. "My son and I will give you three more chances."

"And when you burn through them, you will never find us again."