A seven-year-old girl told the city's most notorious mafia boss to hide behind the cypress trees—minutes later, he found his own wife kissing the man who had come to end her life

Dominic entered through the side conservatory entrance, using his master skeleton key to unlock the heavy oak door without making a sound. He stepped onto the polished travertine floors, his leather soles moving with silent, practiced precision.

He didn't draw his gun. Not yet.

He walked down the long, gallery hallway lined with oil paintings of Italian landscapes and portraits of his ancestors. As he approached his private study, he heard voices coming from inside.

The double doors of the study were pulled slightly ajar.

Dominic paused in the shadow of a marble bust, leaning in to listen.

“Are you sure the Cadillac driver knows what to do?” Clara’s voice floated out into the hallway. She sounded remarkably calm, devoid of the soft, domestic affection she usually wore like perfume around Dominic. “Dominic isn't a fool, Marcus. If he suspects even a fraction of a second before he gets in that car, he will kill him.”

A low, confident laugh responded—Marcus Vance’s voice.

“Relax, Clara,” Vance said. “The driver is a professional from Brooklyn. He’s done three hits for me this year. The second Dominic steps onto the gravel, he’ll be covered. By the time the car reaches the highway, Dominic Bellini will be a memory, and you’ll be the grieving widow managing a multi-million-dollar estate.”

There was a metallic click, followed by the soft hum of an electric motor.

Dominic peeked through the crack between the doors.

Clara was standing near the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. A section of the oak paneling had swung open, revealing the heavy, steel door of Dominic’s wall safe. She had just swiped her silver keycard and entered the eight-digit master code—a code Dominic had given her three years ago when he had suffered a near-fatal bout of pneumonia and thought he needed to prepare her for his sudden death.

Vance was standing right beside her, an arm wrapped possessively around her waist, watching the safe door swing open with greedy, wide eyes.

Inside the safe were three bearer bonds worth twelve million dollars, the original deeds to the South Jersey shipping terminals, and a black ledger containing the names, bank accounts, and corrupt political contacts of every major player on the East Coast.

“Look at this,” Vance breathed, reaching in and pulling out the black leather ledger. “This book alone is worth fifty million from the Chicago outfit. They’ll pay anything to keep their names out of federal court.”

Clara rested her head against Vance’s shoulder, a triumphant smile gracing her lips. “I spent six years playing the dutiful, silent mafia wife, Marcus. Sitting through endless dinners, smiling at old men, pretending I didn't mind the bodyguards and the isolation. I deserve every penny in that box.”

“You deserve more than that,” Vance murmured, turning her around and kissing her deeply on the lips—the exact same kiss Dominic had watched on a seven-year-old girl’s cracked phone ten minutes earlier.

Dominic pushed the double doors open.

The wood creaked loudly against the quiet room.

Vance and Clara whipped around instantly. Vance’s hand flew to his suit jacket, reaching for his sidearm, while Clara gasped, dropping the silver keycard onto the Persian rug.

Dominic stood in the doorway, his charcoal overcoat unbuttoned, his hands resting casually in his suit pockets. His face was completely impassive, his eyes dark pits of absolute zero.

“You forgot to take off your shoes, Marcus,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I don't allow street dirt on that rug.”

Vance froze, his hand half-inside his jacket. He stared at Dominic as if looking at a ghost. “Dominic... how... you’re supposed to be in the car.”

Clara’s face went completely chalk-white. The color drained from her lips, her eyes wide with a sudden, paralyzing terror. “Dominic... I... it’s not what it looks like—”

“Clara,” Dominic interrupted gently, stepping into the room and closing the double doors behind him with a soft click. “Save your breath. You’ve never been a good actress. The dutiful wife routine was mediocre at best, but this... this is sloppy.”

Vance’s teeth bared in a feral sneer. Realizing the trap had failed, he drew his 9mm pistol in a blindingly fast motion, aiming it straight at Dominic’s chest.

“It doesn't matter!” Vance snarled, taking a step forward to shield Clara. “You walked in here alone, Bellini! I have four men outside and a gun pointed at your heart! The plan changes slightly, that’s all. You die in your own study instead of on the highway!”

Dominic didn't flinch. He didn't look at the barrel of the gun. He simply stood there, his hands still in his pockets.