She Fled Chicago Carrying the Mafia Boss's Baby—Then He Found the Medical File That Changed Everything : The night Meline Hayes learned Dominic Valente was engaged to another woman, she burned the only picture of his unborn child over her kitchen sink.

Meline stared at the paper in his hand. She didn't take it. She didn't want to look at anything that came from his world.

"What is that?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Your mother's autopsy report," Dominic said. "And your own genetic panel from Northwestern."

Meline’s breath hitched. "My mother... she had a heart attack."

"She had an aortic aneurysm, Meline," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a gentle, agonizingly soft tone. "It’s a genetic defect. And you carry the same marker. The hormones and the blood volume increase from the pregnancy—they’re putting pressure on your heart. The doctor at Northwestern flagged your file. You need a team of specialists. You need medication. You can't do this in a basement in Boston, Meline. You can't do this under an alias."

She shook her head, her hand clutched to her stomach. "No. You’re lying. You’re just saying this to get me into one of your cars. To put me in a house with guards at the door."

"Look at the paper, Meline," Dominic pleaded, his eyes dark with a desperate, naked sincerity she had never seen in him. "Please. Just look at the name of the doctor. Call the hospital yourself. I don't care if you hate me. I don't care if you never want to see my face again. But you are not going to die because of my blood."

She slowly reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the paper.

The logo of Northwestern Memorial Hospital was at the top. The date was the day she had left Chicago.

She read the words. Connective tissue evaluation. High-risk obstetric referral. The specialist's name was Dr. Aris Thorne—the very doctor who had performed her ultrasound.

The paper began to shake in her hand.

It was true.

Her mother’s sudden, quiet death when Meline was just a girl—the mystery that had haunted her father until the day he died—was laid out in cold, clinical terms. And it was inside her.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her legs finally giving out.

Dominic caught her before she hit the floor. His large arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest, his face burying into her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I’ve got you," he whispered, his hands holding her tight, his chest heaving. "I’ve got you, Meline. I’m not letting you go. Not this time."

For a few minutes, she let him hold her. She let herself feel the warm, familiar scent of cedarwood and money, the strength of the arms that had once made her feel like the safest woman in the world.

But then, the sound of a car door slamming outside shattered the peace.

Dominic’s head snapped up. His eyes turned toward the small window, his entire body going rigid as his hand moved instinctively to the holster beneath his jacket.

The streetlamp outside cast a long, dark shadow across the snow.