“No One Touches Her in My House,” the Mafia Boss Warned the Creepy Butler—But What Happened Next Shocked Everyone

The alarms throughout the manor didn't sound. The landlines had been cut.

Down on the main floor of the library, the high leaded glass windows had been breached. Three heavy flashbang grenades bounced across the oriental rugs, exploding with a blinding white flash and a concussive roar that rattled the floorboards under Corrie’s feet.

“Get down!” Domenico roared.

He grabbed Corrie by her waist, pulling her behind the heavy mahogany balustrade just as a hail of suppressed automatic gunfire tore through the upper bookshelves, sending thousands of shredded paper pages flying through the air like winter snow.

Domenico drew a sleek, dark semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster. He racked the slide with a cold, practiced efficiency.

Below them, heavy boots marched across the shattered glass.

“Domenico!” a harsh, gravelly voice echoed up through the cavernous room. “We know you have the ledger! And we know the girl is up there with you!”

Domenico peeked over the wooden ledge, his face turned to stone.

“Matteo,” Domenico muttered under his breath.

He turned to Corrie, leaning close, his large hand gripping her shoulder with absolute firmness.

“Listen to me,” Domenico whispered into her ear, his breath warm against her cold cheek. “There is a service lift hidden behind the maritime archives in the north corner. It goes straight down to the wine cellar under the kitchen. Rosa is waiting there.”

“I’m not leaving you!” Corrie cried, tears stinging her eyes.

“You have the bloodline, Corrie,” Domenico said, his dark eyes locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. “If I die tonight, Matteo takes everything. If you live, Matteo has nothing. You are the rightful head of this house.”

He reached into his pocket, grabbed the steel box containing the ledger and the photograph, and shoved it into her arms.

“Go!” he commanded.

Domenico stood up, stepping out from behind the balustrade, firing three rapid shots down into the darkness below.

Shouts and returning gunfire erupted instantly.

Corrie didn't waste a second. She clutched the steel box to her chest, scrambled on her hands and knees down the narrow upper corridor toward the north corner, tears blinding her vision.

Bullets whined through the air, splintering the ancient oak cabinets beside her.

She reached the small wooden door of the service lift, pulled the brass latch open, and squeezed inside the cramped, dark shaft. She pulled the door shut just as a bullet struck the frame six inches from her head.