Every Maid Quit After Facing the Paralyzed Mafia Boss—Then She Knelt Beside His Wheelchair and Did What Nobody Else Dared.

By dawn, the Corso estate had transformed into a fortress.

Twelve heavily armed men in dark tactical gear stood guard along the stone perimeter. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a crisp, biting autumn morning.

In the library, Dominic was reviewing floor plans of the south docks warehouse spread across the mahogany desk. Carmine stood over him, cleaning the cylinder of his heavy revolver with a white cloth.

Fay walked into the room carrying a pot of fresh black coffee. She set a cup beside Dominic.

Dominic didn't look up from the blueprints. "Drink it first."

Fay paused. "What?"

"Test it," Dominic said calmly.

Fay lifted the cup, took a slow sip of the scalding black coffee, and set it back down. "Still black. Still bitter. No poison."

Dominic picked up the cup, took a drink, and offered her a slight, appreciative smirk. His color had returned, and the dark circles under his eyes were fading. The tremors in his legs had subsided, replaced by a dull, persistent ache—the ache of waking nerves.

"Carmine," Dominic said, tapping a blueprint marked *Pier 44.* "Moretti's operation uses the old fish-packing plant. Two exits. High concrete walls. If we go through the front gate, they’ll dump whatever documents they have into the incinerator before we reach the office."

"Then we don't go through the front," Carmine grunted. "We breach from the water. Two boats, silent motors."

"No," Fay spoke up suddenly.

Both men stopped and looked at her.

Carmine frowned. "Miss Willis, with all respect, this is a tactical sweep. Domestic staff do not give military advice."

"Pier 44 doesn't have water access anymore," Fay said, pointing directly at the eastern edge of the blueprint.

Dominic raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"My father worked the south docks for two years after he left mechanic work," Fay explained, leaning over the desk. "The city condemned the eastern retaining wall four years ago. They dumped thirty tons of jagged concrete riprap into the basin to stop soil erosion. If you take boats in there at low tide, you'll rip the hulls open before you get within fifty yards."

Dominic looked at Carmine. "Is that true?"

Carmine pulled out his phone, checked the municipal harbor updates, and cursed under his breath. "She’s right. The satellite maps haven't updated the marina depth since 2020."

Dominic leaned back in his chair, looking at Fay with mounting respect. "How did Arthur Willis get his trucks into that warehouse?"

"The old refrigeration tunnel," Fay said. "It runs beneath the southern rail spur. It connects the rail yard directly to the packing basement. My father used to haul illegal engine parts through it when he wanted to bypass the harbor patrol."

"Does the tunnel still exist?" Dominic asked.

"It’s sealed with an iron grate," Fay said. "And the padlock on that grate was put there by my father."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small ring with three rusted iron keys.

"He kept them on his workbench," Fay said softly. "I kept them because I couldn't bear to throw his toolbox away."

Dominic reached out, taking the keys from her palm. His fingers closed tightly around the iron.

"Carmine," Dominic said, a cold, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Get the tactical gear ready. We enter through the tunnel."

Carmine nodded, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "I'll assemble the breach team."

As Carmine walked toward the door, Fay took a step after him.

"Wait," Fay called out.

Dominic turned back to her. "You're staying here, Fay. The estate is locked down. You'll be safe."

"I'm not staying here," Fay said, her chin up, hazel eyes blazing with determination. "Moretti is holding my life over my head. My father died hiding the truth about what happened to your family. I know those tunnels in the dark, Dominic. You need someone who can lead you through the underground pipes, and you're still in that chair."