"Say Sorry to My Mommy,"" the Maid's Heartbroken Toddler Told the Ruthless Mafia Boss — He Went Silent The gun was still shaking in his oldest friend's hand when the little girl's voice came through the phone — three words, barely a whisper, spoken from the backseat of a car speeding toward a warehouse no child should ever see.

The grandfather clock in the main gallery chimed 2:45 AM. The estate was cloaked in unnatural silence, the heavy drumming of rain masking the sound of muffled footsteps on the gravel driveway outside.

Damiano walked down the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing intentionally against the marble. In the center of the hall, standing beside the fountain where Serena had dropped her coffee hours earlier, was Marco.

Marco wasn't wearing his suit. He wore tactical gear, a matte-black submachine gun slung across his chest, flanked by four men in unmarked combat uniforms—men Damiano had never seen in his payroll.

"You're awake late, boss," Marco said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The easy grin was back, but his eyes were completely dead.

"I had trouble sleeping," Damiano replied, stopping six paces away, his hands resting casually inside his coat pockets. "I kept thinking about Bensonhurst. About Leo."

Marco’s smile tightened at the edges. "Leo was weak, Damiano. He wanted to take the family legit. You were too sentimental to put him down, so I did what a real underboss does. I cleared the board."

"And Elena?"

"A loose end," Marco shrugged, stepping forward. "I should have put a bullet in her twenty years ago, but I had a soft spot for the little brat. Sending her away was a mercy. But then she showed up here, under your nose. When she brought that kid into the house, I knew the clock was ticking."

"You sold the port to the Valentis," Damiano stated, his tone chillingly flat.

"I didn't sell it. I partnered with them," Marco corrected, gesturing to the armed men beside him. "You’ve grown soft, Damiano. You spend half your time in boardrooms pretending to be an oil magnate. The street needs iron, not silk. Hand over the cipher keys to the port accounts, and I’ll let you walk away to some island in the Mediterranean. You, Elena, and the kid."

Damiano let out a dry, humorless laugh. "You've known me for twenty-five years, Marco. Have I ever walked away from anything?"

"No," Marco said, lifting the barrel of his weapon. "Which is why I brought a cleanup crew."

Before Marco could pull the trigger, the estate’s power cut out completely, plunging the grand hall into absolute, pitch-black darkness.