MAFIA BOSS CRIED AT HIS DAUGHTER’S GRAVE—NOT KNOWING SHE WAS ALIVE AND WATCHING FROM BEHIND A TREE

Downstairs in the main living room, the tall grandfather clock chimed ten times.

Victoria sat on the plush velvet sofa, sipping a cup of chamomile tea, scrolling through an expensive jewelry catalog on her iPad. She was relaxed, satisfied, and immensely pleased with how smoothly her plan was unfolding.

Marco had called five minutes ago. The meeting with the Moretti family was going perfectly. The Morettis had agreed to pay Marco three million dollars in cash under the table in exchange for the East River dock management rights—a deal that would be finalized at midnight at Marco’s private warehouse down at the docks.

Everything was going according to plan. Dominic was broken, Marco was greedy, and in less than forty-eight hours, she would be the wealthiest widow in New York.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the grand marble staircase.

Victoria looked up, expecting to see Dominic looking pale, exhausted, and asking for his sleeping medication.

Instead, she saw Dominic walking slowly toward her, wearing a tailored black suit, his hair slicked back, his stride long, confident, and powerful.

He wasn't wearing his damp coat. He was holding a glass of clear ice water in his right hand.

Victoria blinked, her heart giving a sudden, unexpected flutter of anxiety. There was something different about him—something in the way he moved, in the absolute, terrifying posture of authority that he hadn't displayed in sixty days.

"Dominic?" Victoria asked, setting her tea cup down on the glass table. "Darling... you look... rested. Are you feeling better?"

Dominic walked into the living room, stopping four feet away from her sofa. He took a slow sip of his water, his amber eyes locked onto her face with an intensity that made Victoria’s skin crawl.

"I had a dream, Victoria," Dominic said softly, his voice smooth and deep.

Victoria smiled nervously, adjusting her black silk dress. "A dream? About what, my love?"

"About Lily," Dominic said.

Victoria’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she forced an expression of gentle, maternal grief onto her face.

"Oh, darling," Victoria cooed, standing up from the sofa and stepping toward him. "It’s natural to dream about her. She’s in heaven, watching over us—"

"No," Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, cold and heavy as lead. "She wasn't in heaven in my dream, Victoria. She was in a basement beneath a brownstone in Brooklyn."

Victoria froze in her tracks.

The color drained from her face so fast she looked like a corpse in her black silk dress. Her blue eyes widened in sudden, blinding panic, her lips parting, but no sound came out of her throat.

"She was cold," Dominic continued, stepping closer to her, his massive frame towering over her small body. "She was hungry. She was locked in the dark for two months while you sat in my dining room eating my food, spending my money, and crying fake tears into your linen napkins."

"Dominic... I... I don't know what you're talking about," Victoria stammered, backing away until her knees hit the edge of the velvet sofa. "You're... you're confused... grief is making you—"

Dominic reached out with lightning speed.

His thick, heavy hand wrapped around her throat.

He didn't crush her neck, but his grip was iron, lifting her off her feet until her toes barely brushed the hardwood floor. Her tea cup crashed onto the floor, shattering into pieces.

"Look at me, Victoria," Dominic growled, his face inches from hers, his amber eyes burning with a terrifying, apocalyptic rage.

Victoria clawed desperately at his wrist, her eyes bulging with terror, her breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps.

"You took my daughter," Dominic whispered into her ear, his voice laced with an absolute, terrifying promise of death. "You burned a house, locked an eleven-year-old child in the dark, and tried to steal my empire."

"Please..." Victoria choked out, tears of genuine, agonizing terror spilling over her cheeks. "Dominic... please... Marco... Marco made me do it!"

Dominic let out a short, cold laugh that echoed through the empty mansion like a death sentence.

"Marco is next," Dominic said smoothly.

He loosened his grip, letting her collapse onto the velvet sofa in a heap of silk, gasping and sobbing for air.

The heavy front doors of the mansion swung open with a bang.

Paulie Vane stepped inside, flanked by six broad-shouldered soldiers in dark tactical gear, armed with suppressed submachine guns.

"The perimeter is secure, Boss," Paulie reported, bowing his head respectfully to Dominic. "Marco’s guards on the estate have been disarmed and locked in the garage."

Dominic didn't even look back at Victoria as he smoothed the lapels of his suit jacket.

"Tie her up," Dominic ordered Paulie flatly. "Put her in the cellar beneath the wine pantry. Don't give her water. Let her sit in the dark until I return."

"Right away, Boss," Paulie said, waving two soldiers forward.

Victoria shrieked as the guards grabbed her arms, dragging her screaming down the corridor toward the basement stairs.

Dominic walked out the front doors onto the driveway, where a fleet of black armored SUVs stood waiting, their engines rumbling softly in the rain.

He pulled a heavy .45-caliber pistol from his shoulder holster, checked the magazine with a sharp clack, and slid it back into place.

"Where to, Boss?" his driver asked, opening the rear door.