The Billionaire Don Found His Maid’s Toddler Under His Table, but One Mark on Her Neck Made His Right-Hand Man Turn White

The wine cellar beneath Greystone was a vast, vaulted subterranean maze built from nineteen-century red brick and heavy oak beams. It housed over ten thousand bottles of rare vintages, along with the main breaker panels for the estate’s power grid, surveillance feeds, and communications array.

Vincent stepped out from the hidden stone archway into the cool, damp air of the cellar. The scent of aged oak, soil, and damp stone filled his senses.

He walked over to the central power control board mounted beside a heavy iron door. He opened the glass panel, pulled out a heavy pair of wire cutters, and systematically severed the main fiber-optic cables connecting the estate to the outside world.

In an instant, every security camera, landline, and Wi-Fi router in Greystone went dead.

Then, Vincent pulled the main breaker lever.

CLUNK!

The entire estate was plunged into pitch-black darkness.

Upstairs, he heard Marco shouting in cursing desperation as the hallway lights cut out, leaving the house illuminated only by the faint silver moonlight streaming through the high arched windows.

Vincent pulled a pair of night-vision goggles from a shelf near the gun rack, slipping them over his head. The dark world instantly transformed into a sharp, green-and-black monochrome landscape.

He heard the heavy iron doors of the basement entrance creak open at the far end of the cellar.

Heavy boots stomped down the stone steps.

“Check the breakers!” a harsh voice ordered from the dark. It was Geno—Marco’s head of security, a former mercenary from Eastern Europe who had run enforcement for Marco’s illegal dock operations. “The Don is down here somewhere! Marco wants him dead before the sun comes up!”

Three men stepped into the wine cellar, holding high-powered tactical flashlights and submachine guns. The bright white beams of light cut through the green darkness, sweeping across the rows of wine racks.

Vincent stood motionless behind a heavy oak pillar ten feet away, his breathing shallow, his pulse calm and steady.

The first mercenary walked past his position, the barrel of his weapon sweeping left.

Vincent stepped out from the shadow behind him like a ghost.

With lightning speed, Vincent’s left hand clamped over the man’s mouth, blocking any scream, while his right hand drove the tactical knife straight up beneath the man’s jawbone into the base of his brain.

The mercenary went limp instantly without making a sound. Vincent caught the body before it hit the floor, easing it silently onto the cold concrete, taking the man’s silenced MP5 submachine gun and tactical radio.

The second mercenary turned a corner two aisles down. “Hey, Pavel, you find the box?”

No answer.

The mercenary frowned, swinging his flashlight beam toward the aisle. “Pavel?”

Vincent stepped out from the center of the aisle, twenty feet away, the silenced MP5 raised to his shoulder.

Pfft-pfft-pfft!

Three 9mm rounds struck the mercenary full in the chest, shattering his body armor, dropping him instantly into a heap against a rack of 1945 Bordeaux.

The third man—Geno—spun around at the sound of the falling body, leveling his assault rifle toward the shadow. “Vincent!”

Vincent didn't shoot. He stepped back behind the oak pillar as a spray of automatic gunfire tore through the wine racks, shattering dozens of glass bottles, showering the stone floor in deep red liquid that smelled heavily of fermented grapes and iron.

RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Glass exploded. Wood splintered.

When the gunfire ceased and the empty magazine clattered against the stone floor, Geno pulled a fresh magazine from his vest, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You’re finished, Moretti!” Geno roared into the dark, his flashlight beam shaking violently. “Marco owns the city now! You’re just a ghost in a dead house!”

Vincent’s voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere in the vaulted cellar, bouncing off the damp brick walls.

“This house was built on dead men, Geno,” Vincent said, his voice smooth, cold, and entirely unhurried. “You are just adding to the foundation.”

Vincent stepped out from the darkness directly behind Geno, pressing the barrel of his Sig Sauer against the back of the mercenary’s knee.

Pfft!

Geno screamed as his kneecap exploded, collapsing onto his good leg, dropping his assault rifle onto the wine-soaked floor.

Before Geno could reach for his sidearm, Vincent drove his heavy tactical boot into the side of Geno’s jaw, flipping him onto his back, then pinned Geno’s neck to the floor with the heel of his boot.

Vincent leaned down, taking off his night-vision goggles, letting his dark eyes fix on the bleeding mercenary in the dim moonlight filtering through the cellar grates.

“Where is Marco’s offshore account ledger?” Vincent asked quietly.

Geno choked on his own blood, glaring up at the Don with pure hatred. “Go to hell, Moretti...”

Vincent increased the pressure of his boot on Geno’s windpipe until the man’s eyes began to bulge from his sockets.

“You have three seconds of air left, Geno,” Vincent whispered. “Tell me where Marco kept the paper trails for Isabella’s transfer, or I will let you bleed out on this floor over the next six hours.”

Geno gasped, his hands clawing at Vincent’s leather boot. “In... in his car!” Geno choked out. “The red leather binder... in the trunk of his Mercedes at the gatehouse! Everything is in there... the bank codes... the coroner’s receipt... everything!”

Vincent studied Geno’s eyes for a fraction of a second, confirmed the truth in his terror, and then pulled his boot back.

Before Geno could catch his breath, Vincent drove the butt of his pistol into the side of Geno’s temple, knocking him unconscious.