Chapter 9 - The Syndicate’s UltimatumThree days after the shootout at the docks, the Castellano estate was busier than it had ever been. But the atmosphere had fundamentally shifted. The staff no longer whispered behind Maya's back; they watched her with a mixture of awe and nervous respect as she walked through the marble halls with Duke trotting faithfully by her side.
She no longer wore the standard maid's uniform. At Vincent's direct order, a tailor from Milan had arrived yesterday, delivering a wardrobe of sharp, elegant bespoke suits and silk blouses that fit her slender frame perfectly.
Yet, the peace was fragile.
In the underground briefing room, the digital monitors flickered with encrypted video feeds. Victor Moretti’s face filled the main screen—older, scarred, and radiating cold fury.
“You think a little stunt at the harbor solves anything, Castellano?” Moretti’s raspy voice echoed through the speakers. “You took my shipment, you humiliated my men, and you’re harboring an outsider who thinks she can play mob boss. Hand over the girl and the northern docks by midnight, or the next message won't be left on a chair—it’ll be delivered to your front gate in pieces.”
Vincent sat calmly at the head of the conference table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Maya stood right beside his right shoulder, her expression completely composed, reviewing a tablet filled with Moretti’s offshore bank accounts that she had spent the last twenty-four hours decrypting.
"Victor," Vincent replied, his voice dripping with icy amusement. "You always were terrible at negotiations. You send a woman to do a soldier's job, she fails. You threaten my house, and you expect me to negotiate?"
“You’re a dead man, Vincent!” Moretti snarled before slamming his fist down, cutting the video feed to a black screen.
The room went dead silent. The senior capos sitting around the table exchanged nervous glances. One of them, a veteran enforcer named Marcus, cleared his throat.
"Boss... Moretti isn't bluffing," Marcus said cautiously. "He has half the city council in his pocket and double our firepower on the east side. If we don't give him something—"
"If we give him an inch, he takes the estate," Maya interrupted, her voice clear, calm, and carrying an absolute authority that made every veteran mobster in the room turn to stare at her.
Marcus frowned, crossing his massive arms. "And what would a former maid know about syndicate war strategy, girl?"
Maya didn't flinch. She tapped the tablet screen, projecting a complex financial flow chart onto the main wall.
"Moretti is over-leveraged," Maya stated, pointing to glowing red data points. "All his recent hits and equipment purchases were funded through a shell corporation called Vanguard Holdings. If we freeze those accounts using the offshore codes I recovered from Isabella's laptop last night, Moretti won't be able to pay his mercenaries by morning. Without pay, mercenaries don't fight."
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Vincent looked up at her, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He stood up from his chair, walking over to stand beside her, placing a heavy, possessive hand on the small of her back.
"She doesn't know syndicate strategy, Marcus," Vincent said softly, his dark eyes gleaming with pride. "She knows mathematics. And in this business, numbers are deadlier than bullets."
