He's Too Late for Her Mafia Majesty
When Leo pushed open the front door, the hallway sensor light didn’t turn on.
— Because the power was out.
The living room was pitch-black—like a coffin—except for a single candle burning faintly at the center of the dining table. A cream cake sat crooked on its plate, three candles stuck into its surface: one for Leo’s 32nd birthday, one for Mia’s 29th, and the third—small, slightly tilted—bearing Ethan’s name. He’d turned five just three days ago.
The candle flame flickered.
Beside the cake lay a note—Mia’s handwriting, but not in her usual blue ink. This was dark red, like dried blood.
*Happy Birthday.*
*Count to three—and I vanish forever.*
*One.*
His finger trembled. The flame leapt violently upward.
*Two.*
His phone vibrated in his pocket—Bank Risk Control. He didn’t answer.
*Three.*
A sharp *pop*—the candle flared, bursting with a tiny bloom of light.
In that same instant, the villa’s backup generator kicked in. Harsh, clinical white light flooded the room—cold as the overhead lamps in a morgue. Under that glare, Leo finally saw it: the chocolate script scrawled across the cake wasn’t a greeting. It was a line—
**“You didn’t even know I was seven weeks pregnant.”**
He sprinted toward the master bedroom. The closet was empty. The nursery door was locked—sealed tight. Taped to the handle: a silver USB drive, engraved with delicate letters—**M.I.A. — “Missing, In Advance.”**
He yanked it free, plugged it into his laptop. The video began playing automatically.
Shaky, handheld footage—like surveillance. Mia sat before an old upright piano, wearing a simple white maternity dress. Her fingers pressed a single key. The note rang out—dull, resonant, unmistakably clear.
She didn’t look at the lens. Just lowered her gaze to her belly, her voice barely above a whisper:
*The day you searched my phone, you deleted the ultrasound report.*
*When you interrogated my best friend, you missed her saying, “She was still throwing up last week.”*
*When you planted the GPS tracker in my purse…*
*You forgot my brother used to run tech ops for MI6.*
The camera jerked—suddenly, Ethan’s face filled the frame. He smeared strawberry frosting across his nose and giggled.
Mia reached out, wiped it away—then lifted her eyes, locking onto the lens with unnerving calm:
*Now guess…*
*Is the baby in here your final DNA sample,*
*Or the last child you’ll ever father?*
The screen went black.
Outside, a black extended Bentley glided silently past the garden. The window slid down halfway—revealing Mia’s profile. She wore black veiling, her wrist wrapped in plain white silk—not mourning attire.
It was the ribbon from a funeral invitation.
And the invitation itself, embossed in gold on the cover, read:
**“With profound sorrow, we announce the death of Mia Vanderbilt—effective 00:01 AM today.”**
Three days later—the Vatican-certified Saint Maria Family Charity Gala.
Leo stood at the edge of the terrace, knuckles white around a champagne flute.
Crystal chandeliers blazed. The crowd parted like water.
She entered.
Black gown sweeping the floor, waist cinched tight—but not tight enough to hide the soft swell beneath. On her left ring finger: an antique diamond, icy and brilliant. At her side stood a tall, silent man—sharp-angled brow, military bearing. His cufflinks: miniature satellite insignias—NATO Joint Task Force, classified designation 071.
Ethan held her hand, tilting his head up.
“Mommy, Daddy said Leo Uncle would be here today.”
Mia glanced down—smiled. Slowly coiled a strand of hair around her finger. Her gaze swept past the shadows where Leo stood—cool, detached, like brushing dust off forgotten furniture.
Then she spoke. Clear. Crystalline. The entire room fell silent.
*Tell Leo Uncle—*
*Every dollar he froze has been transferred into the “Mia Vanderbilt Testamentary Trust.”*
*And my new husband…*
She paused—lifted her hand, gently resting it over her abdomen. A razor-thin smile curved her lips.
*Has just received UN Bioethics clearance—*
*To design and implant my third embryo.*
The champagne flute cracked in Leo’s palm—a hairline fracture. Blood welled between his fingers, dripping into the rose bushes below.
Far across the terrace, Mia’s fingertip tapped once, twice, against her wristwatch—
On its reverse, etched in microscopic script:
**“Countdown: 47 days. Your judgment day.”**