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MAFIA BOSS BLIND DATE NEVER SHOWED UP—UNTIL A LITTLE GIRL RAN UP, THEY BEAT MY MAMA, SHE’S DYING! / Chapter 5 / 10

Chapter 5 - The Confession in the CellarThe reinforced steel door of the interrogation room clicked open.

Yuri Rostov was tied securely to a heavy metal chair, his face bruised, his expensive silk shirt stained with sweat and dirt. Standing guard behind him was Paulie, resting his massive arms over a sawed-off shotgun.

Enzo walked in, closing the door softly behind him. He pulled up a straight-backed wooden chair, sat down backward straddling it, and rested his chin on his forearms, staring at the Russian mob boss.

"Comfortable, Yuri?" Enzo asked mildly.

Yuri spat a glob of blood onto the concrete floor. "Go to hell, Enzo. You think torturing me changes anything? My captains know where I am. The Bratva will level this entire block before morning."

"Your captains are currently trying to figure out how to divide your territory among themselves," Enzo replied smoothly, pulling a silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and flipping it open and closed. Click-clack. Click-clack. "Marcus Vance sent out a nice little memo an hour ago letting them know you've retired from the importing business."

Yuri’s eyes widened in genuine panic. "You... you didn't."

"I did," Enzo said. He stopped playing with the lighter and leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Yuri’s like a hawk eyeing a rabbit. "Now, let’s talk about Claire. You wanted to send a message. You wanted to show me that I have vulnerabilities."

"She’s just a whore you were going to sleep with—"

CRACK.

Before Yuri could finish the sentence, Enzo was out of his chair. His fist connected with Yuri’s jaw with the force of a wrecking ball, snapping the Russian's head back and sending blood spraying across the wall.

Yuri gasped, wheezing for air, his eyes rolling back in shock.

Enzo slowly stepped back, rolling his knuckles, his breathing completely even. He crouched down until his face was inches from Yuri’s ear.

"You can talk about me however you want, Yuri," Enzo whispered, his voice dangerously low. "You can try to take my docks, burn my trucks, or shoot up my warehouses. But you never touch a mother in front of her child. You never make a seven-year-old girl run barefoot through the rain."

Yuri whimpered, trembling violently as he realized the monster he had poked wasn't just a businessman—he was a force of nature.

"Please..." Yuri choked out. "Just... just finish it."

Enzo stood up, dusting off his cuffs. He looked at Paulie.

"Take him down to the dry dock," Enzo commanded coldly. "Put him in a barrel of wet cement. Let the fishes decide what kind of message he sends next."

"With pleasure, boss," Paulie grinned, grabbing the back of Yuri’s chair and hauling him to his feet.

As the door slammed shut, leaving Enzo alone in the damp cellar, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was a text from Marcus Vance:

Boss, you need to look at this. The hit squad Yuri used... they weren't his regular guys. They were hired through a third-party broker in Chicago. And the wire transfer didn't come from Yuri’s accounts.

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My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, each beat echoing the phantom sensation of that tiny shift in my right shoe. Ninety-nine specialists had labeled my paralysis permanent—a psychological blockade fused with trauma after Audrey’s fatal car crash. Yet, here I was, staring at an eight-year-old girl who looked entirely unsurprised.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, each beat echoing...

The helicopter touched down on the private helipad atop the Moretti Grand Hotel just as the Chicago sun began to melt into Lake Michigan, staining the horizon the color of fresh blood.

The helicopter touched down on the private helipad atop the Moretti Gran...

My phone was still pressed against my ear. On the other end, Marcus—my most trusted lieutenant—was breathing heavily. The sound of muffled police radios and shouting filtered through the speaker.

My phone was still pressed against my ear. On the other end, Marcus—my m...

Enzo’s eyebrows drew together. Whose accounts?

Marcus’s reply came instantly: Your sister's, boss. Rosa Marchetti.

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