My Ruthless Ex-Husband Didn't Know I Carried His Twins When He Kicked Me Out Five Years Ago—Until They Marched Straight Into His Boardroom With A Suitcase, A Demanding List Of Chores, And A Single Cold Note: ""Your Turn, Daddy"

The penthouse that occupied the top three floors of the Gold Coast high-rise had never hosted anything more fragile than vintage Baccarat crystal. Now, it was a warzone.

By 8:00 PM, Vincent Moretti sat on his imported white leather sofa, holding a plastic sippy cup like it was an unpinned explosive. Across from him, Lily was happily applying bright purple glitter stickers to the frame of an original oil painting worth half a million dollars.

""Lily, stop,"" Vincent commanded in the voice he used when ordering executions.

Lily turned around, tilted her head, and giggled. ""You're funny, Daddy. Put a sticker on your nose."" She trotted over and slapped a sparkly unicorn right onto his forehead.

Vincent closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. His blood pressure was reaching critical levels. He looked over at the dining table, where Ethan sat with a tablet, calmly flipping through financial charts on the Bloomberg terminal app.

""What are you doing?"" Vincent asked, peeling the sticker off his nose with a wince.

""Checking your stock,"" Ethan answered without looking up. ""Your logistics company dropped two percent this morning. You should buy back shares before market close.""

Vincent froze. ""You can read stock tickers?""

""Mom taught me math. She said a man who doesn't understand money gets taken advantage of by guys like you."" Ethan clicked the screen. ""Also, it's 8:15. We go to bed at 8:30. Mom reads us three chapters of The Little Engine That Could, sings two songs, and Lily needs her warm milk with exactly half a spoon of honey, stirred clockwise.""

Vincent stared at his son in utter disbelief. ""I don't sing.""

""Then Lily screams until midnight,"" Ethan said matter-of-factly. ""She has very strong lungs. Her record is three hours and forty minutes.""

Right on cue, Lily dropped her glitter pens, rubbed her eyes, and let out a trembling, experimental whimper.

Panic—pure, unadulterated terror—surged through Vincent’s veins. He had faced rival mobsters in back alleys without flinching. He had stood down federal prosecutors with a cold smile. But looking at Lily’s quivering bottom lip, he realized he had no weapons in his arsenal to combat this.

""Marco!"" Vincent shouted into his earpiece. ""Where is the honey? Find the damn honey!""

What followed was the most humiliating two hours of Vincent Moretti's adult life. The ruthless don of Chicago found himself sitting on the floor of a guest bedroom, wearing a charcoal dress shirt soaked in spilled milk, awkwardly trying to hum a tune while Ethan judged him with narrowed eyes.

""You're off-key,"" Ethan said, pulling the covers up to his chin. ""And Mom’s voice is softer.""

""Your mother isn't here,"" Vincent muttered, feeling a strange, hollow ache in his chest. Looking at the two children tucked beneath the heavy down blankets, their faces softened by sleep, the reality hit him with brutal force.

He had missed five years. Five first steps. Five sets of first words. Countless scrapes, fevers, and bedtimes. While he was building an empire to numb the pain of Emily’s absence, she had been nursing his children in silence, carrying the burden entirely on her own shoulders.

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Marco.