The Mafia Boss Lost His Memory But I'm Still Carrying His Child

Isabella

2:30 AM. Michigan Lake Docks.

I sat alone in the second-floor office of Warehouse 7, the glow of my laptop screen casting shadows across stacks of financial records.

Eighteen months of undercover work was about to pay off.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, copying the final batch of money laundering records from the Salvatore family's political connections.

Each transaction was another nail in their coffin—City Hall kickbacks, judicial bribes, police protection payments.

"Almost done," I whispered to myself, inserting the USB drive.

That's when I saw it.

Tucked between the pages of Vincent Salvatore's personal ledger was a small velvet box and a handwritten note in his precise script: I want to marry you. - V

My breath caught. Inside the box was a stunning diamond solitaire, the kind of ring that spoke of serious intentions, not casual flings.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Vincent Salvatore, the most dangerous man in Chicago, wanted to marry his accountant.

The man I'd been sent to destroy was planning to propose.

I still remember the night everything changed between us.

Vincent found me working late in the warehouse office, brought me coffee, and stayed to help balance the quarterly reports. For three hours, we sat side by side—him explaining dock operations while I taught him advanced accounting formulas.

"You make numbers beautiful, Isabella," he said, watching me work.

When our hands brushed reaching for the same file, he didn't pull away. Neither did I.

"I never expected to find someone like you in this business," he whispered.

That's when I realized I'd stopped thinking of him as Vincent Salvatore, the mob boss I was sent to destroy.

He'd become just Vincent—the man I was falling for while betraying him.

The ring I'd found tonight wasn't a surprise. I'd been waiting for him to propose for weeks, dreading it and craving it equally.

Now, carrying his child with evidence that could destroy his family, I understood the cruel irony: the only man who could protect our baby was the one whose heart I'd have to break.

"Canary to Base," I whispered into my wire. "Evidence collection complete. Preparing to extract."

Static crackled through my earpiece, then Agent Mike's voice: "Copy that, Canary. Cleanup crew standing by."

I closed the ledger, slipping the ring back inside.

I'd been trained not to form attachments, but eighteen months of watching Vincent run community soup kitchens and fund neighborhood clinics had shattered my preconceptions about organized crime.

And now he wanted to marry me.

A chill ran down my spine. The warehouse was too quiet. Something was wrong.

2:45 AM. Warehouse Floor.

Through the second-floor window, I watched Vincent's Maserati screech to a halt outside the loading dock. He burst through the warehouse entrance, and even from my vantage point, I could see the tension in his movements.

Then I smelled it. Gasoline.

My blood turned to ice as I spotted the timer devices the O'Connor demolition team had planted throughout the warehouse.

Twenty-eight seconds.

Twenty-seven.

Twenty-six.

My FBI training screamed at me to run, to save myself and complete the mission. But Vincent was walking into a death trap, and he had no idea.

The man who wanted to marry me was about to die.

Twenty-three seconds.

I didn't think. I just moved.

"Vincent!" I screamed, racing down the stairs. "Bomb! Get out!"

He spun toward my voice, his eyes wide with shock. "Isabella? What the hell are you doing here?"

Fifteen seconds.

"There's no time!" I grabbed his arm. "We have to—"

BOOM.

The world exploded into fire and twisted metal. A massive steel beam, torn loose by the blast, came crashing down toward us. Vincent threw himself over me as we both hit the concrete floor.

Everything went black.

University of Chicago Medical Center.

My eyes fluttered open to the steady beep of monitoring equipment. Sunlight streamed through hospital windows, and my head felt like someone had used it for batting practice.

"Easy, Ms. Torres. You're safe."

A young doctor in scrubs smiled down at me. "You've got a concussion and some bruising, but you're going to be fine. However, we need to run some additional tests."

"Additional tests?" I tried to sit up, wincing.

"The blood work revealed something unexpected." The doctor's smile widened. "Congratulations, Ms. Torres. You're pregnant. About twenty weeks along."

The words hit me like another explosion. Pregnant. Five months pregnant. With Vincent Salvatore's child.

"The baby... is it okay?"

"Perfectly healthy. Strong heartbeat, normal development. You're very lucky."

Through the curtain dividing our room, I could hear voices discussing another patient. Vincent's voice was not among them.

"How is... the man who was brought in with me?"

The doctor's expression grew serious. "Mr. Salvatore suffered severe head trauma. He's conscious, but..." He paused. "The injury has caused traumatic amnesia. He doesn't remember the past eighteen months."

My mind raced. Vincent couldn't remember the past eighteen months. He couldn't remember me.

"Does he remember his name? His family?"

"Basic identity, yes. But recent memories, personal relationships formed in the past year and a half..." The doctor shook his head. "Gone."

I lay back against the pillows, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. This changed everything.

Vincent's amnesia was my lifeline—and my child's.

Hospital corridor coffee station. Next morning.

Agent Mike appeared like a shadow in his crisp black suit, motioning me toward a secluded corner near the vending machines.

"Torres." His voice was ice. "Time to come home."

I remained seated, cradling a cup of terrible hospital coffee. "I need more time."

"You need to hand over the evidence. Now." Mike's eyes were hard. "The Salvatore warehouse bombing made national news. Our window is closing."

"The investigation isn't complete—"

"The investigation is over." Mike leaned closer. "Hand over the USB drive and the financial records, or we'll prosecute you for aiding and abetting organized crime."

I met his stare. "You want the evidence? Fine."

I reached into my purse and pulled out a manila envelope, sliding it across the table.

Mike opened it, expecting to find USB drives and documents. Instead, he found a single sheet of paper.

Prenatal care summary. Patient: Isabella Torres. Gestational age: 20 weeks. Father: Vincent Salvatore.

Mike's face went white. "What the hell is this?"

"That, Agent Mike, is Vincent Salvatore's child." My voice was steady. "His heir. Now tell me—what exactly do you think the Bureau will do with an agent who's carrying the Chicago mob boss's baby?"

Mike stared at the ultrasound image clipped to the medical report. "Jesus Christ, Isabella. What have you done?"

"I've protected my asset," I said coolly. "And my child."

"You can't seriously think—"

"I think," I interrupted, "that the FBI has two choices. Prosecute a pregnant agent for doing her job too well, or find a way to make this work for everyone."

Mike's jaw tightened. "Where's the real evidence?"

I smiled. "Safe."

"Torres, you're making the biggest mistake of your life."

"No, Mike. I'm making the smartest decision of my life." I stood up. "I'm protecting my family."