The Baker Was Ordered to Poison the Mafia Boss—Instead, She Risked Her Life to Warn Him

Dominic grabbed Clara by the wrist, pulling her behind the reinforced steel door of the pantry.

“Stay here,” he ordered, his eyes blazing with absolute focus. “Lock this door from the inside. Do not open it for anyone except me or Marco.”

“Dominic, no!” Clara cried out, her fingers clutching his shirt. “He came for you!”

“He came to die,” Dominic corrected coldly. He pressed a small silver emergency transmitter into her palm. “If anyone attempts to break this door down, press this button. It will seal the reinforced shutters throughout the wing.”

He kissed her forehead—a swift, fierce press of his lips that left her breathless—and disappeared into the shadowy corridor as the sound of shattering glass and heavy combat drew closer.

Outside the kitchen wing, Victor Moretti was making his final, desperate gambit.

Knowing that Dominic’s methodical strategy was slowly strangling his business, Victor had spent his last million dollars bribing a disgraced Russo lieutenant to open the estate’s west gate. He had brought twelve heavily armed mercenary hitmen, intending to burn the mansion to the ground and execute Dominic in his own home.

Victor strode through the grand foyer, holding an AK-47, his face twisted in a manic rage.

“Russo!” Victor roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers. “Come out, you arrogant bastard! You think you can protect a pathetic little baker and take my city? I’m going to paint these walls with your blood!”

A single gunshot answered him from the top of the marble staircase.

The round struck the man standing next to Victor directly between the eyes, dropping him instantly to the floor.

Dominic stepped into the open at the landing of the grand stairs, firing with terrifying speed and precision. Two more hitmen collapsed before the rest could take cover behind the grand piano and mahogany pillars.

“You always were sloppy, Victor,” Dominic’s voice echoed down from above, smooth and deadly as a silk garrote. “You bring street thugs to a fortress.”

From the shadows of the side halls, Marco and six elite Russo operatives descended upon Moretti’s men, catching them in a brutal, crossfire trap.

The grand foyer became a slaughterhouse. Muzzle flashes illuminated the oil paintings and marble statues in strobes of orange light. Shell casings rained onto the hardwood floor like metallic hail.

Victor, realizing his assault team was being systematically wiped out, panicked. He turned and sprinted back toward the shattered front entrance, attempting to reach his armored SUV parked in the driveway.

He burst through the front doors into the pouring rain, coughing, his boot slipping on the wet stone steps.

He didn't make it to the car.

A bullet caught Victor in the right shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him onto his back in the mud. His rifle clattered out of reach down the driveway.

Victor groaned, clutching his bleeding shoulder, looking up through the torrential rain.

Dominic descended the stone steps slowly, his dark coat billowing in the wind, his pistol held at his side. He stopped three feet from the wounded mobster.

“Dominic... wait!” Victor gasped, terror finally breaking through his manic aggression. He scrambled backward in the mud, pressing his back against the tire of his vehicle. “We can make a deal! The docks, the airport... take it all! Just let me leave Boston!”

Dominic looked down at the man who had threatened Clara, who had held a gun to an innocent boy’s head, and who had tried to poison him in his own home.

“You broke the rules of the neighborhood, Victor,” Dominic said softly, his voice carrying clearly over the sound of the thunder. “You brought terror to the honest people.”

Dominic raised the pistol, aiming it directly between Victor Moretti’s eyes.

“Boston belongs to the people who build it.”

A single shot rang out into the rainy night.