My Maid’s Seven-Year-Old Daughter Said the Mafia Boss Was Drugged—Then I Locked the Doors and Realized the Traitor Was Still in the Room.

By midnight, the storm had reached its peak over Boston Harbor. Thunder rolled across the dark skies, illuminating the gray-stone mansion in flashes of brilliant white light.

Inside the grand private study, three men in expensive charcoal suits sat around Dominic’s massive oak desk. At the head of the table sat Victor Vane—the chief representative of the Chicago coalition. He was a sharp-faced, arrogant man in his late fifties, holding a gold pen as he reviewed a thick stack of real estate transfer documents.

Standing along the dark wood paneling were six heavily armed mercenaries dressed in tactical suits.

"Cassian is taking a long time to clear the subterranean vaults," one of the Chicago enforcers noted, checking his luxury watch.

"It doesn't matter," Victor Vane replied smoothly, taking a sip from a glass of vintage bourbon. "Once these deeds are signed, the Ferrero name is erased from Boston. The court will validate the transfer by sunrise."

Suddenly, the heavy oak double doors of the study blew inward with a deafening explosion.

Wood splinters and smoke filled the air as Marco and three loyal Ferrero enforcers who had been freed from the holding cells swept into the room, their suppressed weapons flashing in the darkness.

The Chicago mercenaries scrambled to return fire, but they were taken completely by surprise. Muzzle flashes illuminated the room in rapid, blinding bursts as three mercenaries collapsed to the carpet in seconds.

Victor Vane dropped his gold pen, scrambling backward toward the bay window, his face pale with sudden, terrifying shock.

Through the smoke stepped Dominic Ferrero.

His black suit was soaked through, his shirt unbuttoned, his dark hair wet, but his towering presence was absolute and terrifying. He held a heavy sidearm in his hand, his icy blue-gray eyes fixed on Victor Vane.

Behind him walked Alina, dressed in a clean coat provided by Marco, holding seven-year-old Lucia firmly by her hand.

"Vane," Dominic said, his deep voice carrying over the ringing silence of the room. "You're sitting in my chair."

Vane backed against the glass window, his hands raised in desperate surrender. "Dominic... this was Cassian's deal! Chicago just provided the financing! We didn't know about Joseph's daughter!"

"You knew," Dominic stated coldly, walking up to the desk. He picked up the stack of transfer documents, looking at the forged signatures on the top page. He tossed the papers into the lit fireplace near the desk, watching the paper ignite into bright yellow flames.

"The Ferrero family doesn't sell to Chicago, Vane," Dominic whispered.

He turned to Marco. "Take Mr. Vane and his surviving men down to the lower holding cells. The federal prosecutor will be here at six AM to receive them."