The Maid Screamed That the Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Was Slitting the Baby’s Throat Until His First Breath Exposed Who Had Really Come to Kill Him

Seated around the heavy oak table were Dante’s four most trusted captains—Sal Mercer, Dominic Rossi, Paulie Vane, and Vincent Moretti, Dante’s cousin.

On the opposite side of the table, sitting upright with an air of cold, untouchable elegance, sat Vivienne Cross.

Dominic Rossi, a burly man with silver-streaked hair and a scar across his left cheek, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked at Vivienne, then at Dante, clearing his throat.

"Boss," Dominic said, pitching his voice carefully. "With all due respect, having Miss Cross—the daughter of the man we are about to declare war on—sitting in a high-level tactical briefing is... irregular."

"Miss Cross is not a spectator," Dante said from the head of the table. His suit was black, his face carved from ice. "She is a co-conspirator in our survival. And as of three hours ago, she provided us with something far more valuable than men with guns."

Vivienne slid a thick manila folder across the mahogany table toward Sal Mercer.

Sal opened it, his tired eyes scanning the documents inside. As he read, his eyebrows rose higher and higher until they disappeared into his hairline.

"Mother of God," Sal muttered.

"What is it, Sal?" Paulie Vane asked, leaning forward.

"These aren't just shipping manifests," Sal said, his voice dropping in disbelief. "These are the internal bank routing numbers, offshore shell corporations, and encrypted communication codes of the entire Northern Corridor Alliance. Every bribe paid to the state police, every politician on Everett Cross's payroll, every illicit cargo drop from Montreal to Chicago."

Dominic whistled low through his teeth. "Where did you get this, Miss Cross?"

"My father is meticulous," Vivienne said, her voice calm and chillingly polite. "When I was still practicing medicine, he occasionally used my private study to store backup ledgers because he thought the federal authorities wouldn't look at a doctor's personal files. When I was disowned, I didn't leave empty-handed. I took his insurance policy."

Vincent Moretti, a younger, hot-headed captain who had always advocated for a preemptive strike, let out a sharp laugh of admiration. "Remind me never to get on your bad side, Miss."

"You wouldn't survive it," Vivienne replied without blinking.

Dante looked at her, a flicker of genuine respect—and something much deeper and more dangerous—warming his dark eyes.

"With these codes," Dante said, turning his attention back to his captains, "we don't just fight the Northern Corridor. We blind them. We freeze their bank accounts in Zurich by noon. We seize their primary rail depot in Milwaukee by sunset. And by tomorrow morning, Everett Cross will wake up to find his empire dismantled from the inside out."

"And the girl—Clara?" Sal asked.

"Send her back to her handlers," Dante said flatly. "Tie her hands, put her in the trunk of a stolen sedan, and leave it parked outside Everett Cross’s primary Milwaukee residence with a message written in her own blood."

The room went completely silent. No one argued. No one questioned the brutality of the order. In the world they inhabited, treason was paid for in currency far heavier than gold.

"Is Leo sleeping?" Vivienne asked softly, turning her head slightly toward Dante.

"Dr. Hale checked him an hour ago," Dante replied, his voice softening imperceptibly. "His vitals are stable. The toxin has cleared his system. He’s sleeping like nothing ever happened."

Vivienne let out a long, quiet breath, her shoulders sagging just a fraction.

"Good," she murmured.

"We ride in twenty minutes," Dante told his men, standing up from the table. The captains filed out of the room in disciplined silence, leaving Dante and Vivienne alone in the gray morning light.

Dante walked over to her chair, stopping just inches away. He reached out, his warm fingers gently brushing against her jawline, tilting her face up so she had to look at him.

"You don't have to stay here while this happens," Dante said quietly. "If you want to leave—if you want to pack your bags and go anywhere else in the world—my men will get you out safely before the war starts."

Vivienne didn't pull away from his touch. Her gray eyes searched his face, finding no deception, no manipulation—only a raw, uncompromising honesty.

"My father disowned me. My career was stolen from me. And I spent eighteen days in a gilded cage believing I had no power left," Vivienne whispered, her voice steady and fierce. "You think I'm going to run away now that the war has finally started?"