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Your Heart Is Sad, Mister,” the Maid’s Toddler Whispered to the Mafia Boss—Then She Said Something That Broke Him / Chapter 9 / 20

Chapter 9

Thirty minutes later, the firing ceased. The grand foyer of the Moretti estate was silent, save for the crackling of a shattered chandelier.

Franco Moretti stepped through the blown-out front doors, flanked by his remaining elite guards. He looked older, his face twisted into a smug, arrogant grin as he surveyed the wreckage.

“It’s over, nephew,” Franco called out, his voice echoing through the hollow mansion. “You let sentimentality blind you. A soft heart makes a weak Don.”

From the grand staircase above, a shadow stepped forward.

Antonio stood at the top of the landing, his clothes stained with soot and blood, holding the ledger in one hand and a revolver in the other.

“You killed my son, Franco,” Antonio said quietly, each word carrying the weight of an executioner's axe. “You poisoned his medicine to break my spirit, and you threw Daniel Rossi off a roof to cover your tracks.”

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The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure terminal on my desk flashed a violent crimson. I hadn't slept in thirty-six hours, my eyes burning from staring at columns of ghost figures, duplicate invoices, and shell corporations linked to Dominic Rossi. But the red alert wasn’t from Rossi’s faction. It was an internal security flag originating from the estate’s main vault deep beneath the west wing.

The ink on the emergency audit report was barely dry when the secure ter...

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scattering the light from the chandeliers. The muffled laughter died instantly, replaced by a suffocating, heavy silence that crept outward from the grand staircase.

The glass shattered into a thousand tiny diamonds on the marble, scatter...

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking out the clinical, terrifying silence of the kitchen. Evelyn Crane stood stiffly in front of my mahogany desk, her hands folded over her apron with the rigid precision of someone who had spent decades micromanaging every square inch of my estate. Behind her, Norah hovered near the doorway, clutching her clipboard like a shield.

The heavy oak doors of my private study clicked shut behind us, locking...

Franco’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly, raising his pistol. “Prove it.”

“I don't need to prove it to a corpse,” Antonio replied.

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