The mafia boss spent the whole day with his mistress, ignoring his wife’s calls like they meant nothing. He thought he still had time to fix it. Then he finally checked his phone— and her last message wasn’t an argument… it was a goodbye he could never undo.

Dominic glanced at the screen, saw the name Evelyn Caruso, and dismissed it without a second thought.

“Work?” Bianca asked lazily.

“Noise,” he replied, already reaching for her, already convincing himself that whatever waited on the other side of that missed call could wait a few hours more, as it always had.

What Dominic did not know, what he could not have known in his arrogance, was that the woman whose call he had just ignored was lying alone in a private hospital room, staring at two pink lines that would never have the chance to become a future, realizing with a clarity that hurt more than grief that she had reached the end of a long, careful silence.

Evelyn Caruso did not cry when the nurse confirmed what her body already knew.

She listened as if the sentence were about someone else, nodded politely, and waited until the door closed behind the nurse before pressing her hand flat against her stomach, not in denial, but in farewell. She had lost before—pieces of herself, years of her life, the right to ask questions—but this loss rearranged something fundamental.

Her phone buzzed.

An anonymous number.