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

The room collapsed into chaos. Female guests screamed, pushing back their chairs, while Desmond’s four personal bodyguards reached for their weapons.

Before they could draw, the parish hall’s side doors smashed open. Vance and six armed enforcers clad in black tactical gear flooded the room, subduing Desmond’s guards within seconds, pressing their faces hard against the stone floor.

"Nobody moves!" Vance roared, sweeping his rifle across the room.

The elite of Savannah stood frozen in absolute terror.

Grant maintained his crushing hold on Desmond’s throat. He pulled his own sleek black pistol from his shoulder holster, pressing the cold barrel directly against the base of Desmond’s skull.

"Grant! Please!" Desmond choked out, tears of pain and panic streaming down his face. "I raised you! I made you who you are!"

"You made me a killer, Desmond," Grant whispered, his voice terrifyingly calm. "And now you're going to see how good a job you did."

"Grant, wait!"

A clear, powerful female voice echoed through the hall.

The rear doors cleared, and Jolene stepped into the room. She wore an elegant navy blue maternity gown, her hand resting over her round belly, her posture straight and regal. Beside her walked two federal agents holding official arrest warrants.

Grant froze, his thumb resting on the pistol’s hammer. He turned his head to look at her. "Jolene... I told you to stay at the house."

"And let you ruin your life by murdering him in front of fifty witnesses?" Jolene said, walking down the aisle toward him, stepping past the terrified guests without a second glance. "You promised our son he would grow up in a world with an honorable father. Shooting this dog in a church hall isn't honor, Grant. It’s revenge."

She stopped beside Grant, reaching down to place her warm fingers over his gun hand.

"Let the feds take him," Jolene whispered softly, her eyes searching his. "We have the wiretaps, the offshore accounts, the forged records, and the testimony of the doctor in Nassau. He will spend the rest of his natural life in a maximum-security prison in Colorado. He will die in the dark, alone, while you watch our son grow up in the sun."

Grant stared at Jolene. The fire of murderous rage burning inside his chest met the cool, healing tide of her gaze. Slowly, agonizingly, the tension drained from his shoulders.

Grant slowly eased the hammer back on his pistol, stepped away from the table, and holstered his weapon.

"He's all yours, Agent," Grant said cold-eyed to the federal officers.

The agents stepped forward immediately, slamming heavy steel handcuffs onto Desmond’s wrists, dragging the sobbing, broken old man out of the hall to a waiting police convoy outside.

Grant turned to Arthur Langford, who was standing paralyzed near the head table.

"Arthur," Grant said smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. "The wedding is canceled. But your ten percent share of the northern terminal remains intact—transferred directly to your daughter, Monica."

Monica stepped out from behind the head table, holding a glass of champagne. She raised it toward Grant with a subtle, appreciative nod. "Pleasure doing business with you, Grant."