720 Walking With His Fiancée, the Mafia Boss Saw the Woman He Thought Had Died—Now Pregnant

By 4:00 AM, Grant had moved Jolene out of the St. Julian Street apartment. He didn't take her to his penthouse or any known Holloway safehouse. Instead, he brought her to a private, heavily fortified estate on Skidaway Island—a property owned entirely through an offshore shell company that even Desmond’s accountants didn't know existed.

The estate was garrisoned by eight men loyal exclusively to Grant—men he had personally pulled from the military who owed their lives to him, led by Vance.

"Keep her safe," Grant told Vance in the driveway, as rain began to fall in heavy, tropical sheets. "If anyone approaches this gate without my personal pass code, shoot first."

"Understood, boss," Vance replied, racking the bolt of his rifle.

Grant turned to Jolene, who stood on the covered porch wearing one of his large wool coats. He walked up, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He kissed her—hard, deep, and desperate—tasting the salt of her tears and the warmth of her breath.

"Stay here," Grant whispered against her lips. "I have to play the groom for a little longer."

"Grant... be careful," she pleaded, clutching his lapels. "Desmond is a snake."

"Snakes are easy to kill," Grant said cold-eyed. "You just have to cut off the head."

Three hours later, at 8:30 AM, Grant walked into the glass-walled executive conference room on the top floor of the Holloway Tower in downtown Savannah.

The room was packed. Sitting around the dark walnut table were the five senior capos of the Holloway Syndicate, along with Desmond Holloway—dressed in a crisp navy suit, looking distinguished and serene—and Arthur Langford, Monica’s father, the billionaire financier who held the syndicate’s offshore laundering networks.

"Grant!" Desmond smiled warmly, standing up with open arms. "You're late, my boy. We were just discussing the security arrangements for the wedding venue at the Cathedral of St. John."

Grant walked to the head of the table. He didn't sit down. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, placing his hands flat on the glass surface. He looked around the room, taking in the faces of the men who thought they ruled his world.

"The wedding is moving forward as planned," Grant said, his voice entirely void of emotion.

Desmond chuckled smoothly. "Good! Arthur was just saying how impressed he is with the market projections for the new shipping terminal."

"However," Grant continued, his eyes locking onto Desmond’s with a cold, piercing intensity, "we have an internal leak."

The room went dead silent. The capos exchanged nervous glances. Arthur Langford frowned, adjusting his silk tie.

"A leak?" Desmond’s smile wavered slightly, though he maintained his relaxed posture. "What kind of leak, Grant?"

"Someone has been forging official Syndicate documentation," Grant said, leaning forward slightly. "Five months ago, a false death record was introduced into my personal file. A fake paper signed by a non-existent doctor at Mercy Memorial Hospital."

Desmond’s jaw twitched—a micro-expression that lasted less than a second, but to Grant, who had watched his uncle for thirty years, it was a glaring sign of guilt.

"That's... absurd," Desmond said, letting out a forced laugh. "Who would do such a thing? And why?"

"To manipulate me," Grant said softly. "To break my spirit so I would sign over thirty percent of the Syndicate’s voting shares to the Langford group without asking questions."

Arthur Langford stood up, his face flushing red. "Now wait a minute, Holloway! Are you accusing me of fraud?"

"I’m not accusing you, Arthur," Grant turned his gaze slowly toward his uncle. "I’m looking at the man who arranged it."

Desmond’s eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. The illusion of the loving uncle vanished, replaced by the calculating predator beneath.

"You're tired, Grant," Desmond said quietly, a veiled threat laced in his words. "You've been under a lot of stress lately. Maybe you should take a few days off before the wedding. Let me handle the board."