My Mafia Husband Saved His Mistress While I Bled Pregnant Upstairs—Three Years Later, One Nursery Recording Exposed Why He Chose the Wrong Woman My husband heard gunfire inside our mansion, saw two paths in front of him—and chose to save his mistress while I was bleeding upstairs with his unborn son.

The black SUV pulled up to the curb outside the bakery, the tires screeching against the wet pavement.

I stood behind the counter, my hand still gripping the revolver, my breathing shallow. Elias stood near the door, keeping watch over the empty street.

The driver's door swung open.

When Adrien stepped out, the breath was knocked entirely out of my lungs. He looked older, his face shadowed by a dark, unkempt beard, the sharp, elegant lines of his face hardened by three years of grief and violence.

He walked to the glass door and stopped, staring at me through the window. The heavy rain soaked his suit, but he didn't seem to notice.

His eyes, storm-gray and fierce, locked onto mine. The sheer devastation on his face was enough to crack the ice around my heart, but I forced myself to stay rigid.

Elias opened the door for him and stepped outside, leaving us alone in the quiet shop.

Adrien took one step inside, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. He looked at my face, my flour-dusted apron, the gun trembling in my hand.

"Mara," he choked out, the word breaking into a sob.

He fell to his knees in the middle of the bakery, completely abandoning the pride and power of a syndicate boss. He bowed his head, his shoulders shaking violently as he stared at the floor tiles.

"I'm sorry," he wept, a broken, agonizing sound that filled the room. "I'm so sorry."