"The Billionaire Mob Boss Was Moments Away From a Power Marriage—Until Four Mini-Me Boys Walked Into a Restaurant Restroom and Blew Up His Entire Empire!"

The marble floors of the Back Bay restaurant’s men’s room felt suddenly unsteady beneath my polished leather shoes. At thirty-seven, Dominic Moretti did not lose his balance. People in Boston knew better than to look at me sideways, let alone test my footing. As the acting head of one of the city’s most entrenched syndicate families, my life was built on absolute control. Every asset, every alliance, every single movement was calculated down to the second.

Tonight was supposed to be the pinnacle of that cold calculation. At 7:30 PM, I was scheduled to slide a diamond ring onto Sloane Barrett’s finger beneath the glass roof of our family conservatory, cementing a powerful union between the Moretti empire and the Barrett shipping dynasty. It was a strategic merger disguised as a romance. Everyone called it a match made in heaven. I knew the truth: it was a tactical necessity.

An hour earlier, a traffic delay on Storrow Drive had forced my driver to pull over near Copley Square, buying me a brief window of solitude. I ducked into the upscale restaurant to straighten my navy tie and steady my nerves. That was when the universe decided to unravel six years of carefully constructed armor.

Four boys stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the long wall of sinks, washing their hands. They wore matching navy crewneck sweaters, crisp khaki pants, and dark, unruly hair that fell just past their brows. I wouldn't have given them a second glance, except for a sudden, eerie choreography.

The smallest boy on the left pushed his dark hair backward with an impatient sweep of his palm, tilted his head at a sharp fifteen-degree angle, and hooked his left hand behind his neck.

Instantly, the other three boys mirrored the exact gesture in perfect synchronization.

My breath hitched. I had made that precise, unconscious adjustment since I was a child—a nervous tic my grandfather used to mock before he realized it was genetic. My hand froze on the edge of the marble counter.

"Hey, kiddo," I heard myself say, my voice sounding rougher than intended. "Mind giving me some room?"

The first boy turned around to face me. The world outside that bathroom door—the waiting car, the political maneuvering, Sloane Barrett waiting under the conservatory glass—evaporated instantly.

I was looking straight into my own eyes.

The same sharp jawline, the exact shape of the lips, and that stubborn, familiar crease right between the eyebrows that always appeared when things didn't go according to plan. He wasn't just a boy who looked vaguely like me; he was a living, breathing photocopy of Dominic Moretti at six years old.

Before I could process the shock, the second boy turned. Then the third. Then the fourth. Four miniature versions of myself stared back at me with bright, intelligent, fearless eyes. Four sets of identical features, varying only slightly in height and posture.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped animal. In my line of work, I had stared down federal prosecutors, rival capos, and men holding loaded weapons without letting my pulse spike. But these four children terrified me to my core.

"How old are you?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave, tight and strained.

The boy closest to me offered a slight, knowing smirk that made my stomach drop through the floorboards.

"Six," he answered clearly.

Six.

The word struck me like a physical blow. Six years ago, my world had violently collided with a woman whose name I hadn’t dared utter aloud since the night she vanished. The only woman I had ever loved enough to walk away from my family’s throne—if she had only let me.

And now, standing right in front of me, were four walking pieces of evidence that she had kept a secret massive enough to alter the landscape of Boston forever. My hand instinctively twitched toward the heavy velvet box sitting inside my jacket pocket, where the engagement ring waited.

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door of the restroom swung open.

A light, hurried set of footsteps clicked against the tile floor, accompanied by a voice that sent a violent shockwave straight through every nerve ending in my body.

"Boys? Where on earth did you—oh, thank goodness, I turned around for two seconds and..."

The voice trailed off.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. I was paralyzed, staring at my own reflection in the mirror, watching the reflection of the woman standing in the doorway lock eyes with mine.