“Think You’re Tough? Prove It!” the Mafia Boss Mocked—Then the Waitress Dropped Him Cold

The illusion of peace in the Russo estate was shattered at 3:14 a.m. exactly one week later.

Gunfire ripped through the reinforced glass of the eastern wing. Shouts echoed across the courtyard, followed by the deep, concussive boom of a breaching charge blowing open the front security doors.

A rival faction—the remnants of the Chicago cartel attempting to carve out territory in Baltimore—had launched a decapitation strike.

Harper woke instantly, the muscle memory of the diner attack kicking in. She rolled out of bed, grabbing the suppressed automatic pistol Roman had insisted she keep in her nightstand, and bolted out into the hallway just as smoke filled the corridor.

“Harper!”

Roman emerged from his private study, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a pistol in each hand. His face was carved from granite, his eyes dark with lethal intent.

“How many?” she asked, racking the slide of her weapon with practiced ease.

“At least twenty,” Roman said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her behind a massive stone pillar as a volley of automatic fire chewed through the drywall above their heads. “They brought heavy ordnance. They want the core servers and they want my head.”

“Not on my watch,” Harper snarled, a fierce, reckless adrenaline surging through her veins.

“Stay behind me—”

“No!” Harper shoved past him, firing two rapid shots down the hallway toward a masked intruder advancing with an assault rifle. The man dropped instantly, clutching his shoulder. “We split up! You take the southern stairwell and flank them from behind; I’ll secure the server room controls so they can’t download the asset ledgers!”

Roman stared at her for a fraction of a second—not as a fragile woman needing protection, but as the partner who had broken his nose and stood beside him at the table of wolves.

“Don’t die, little bird,” Roman said grimly.

“I’m too stubborn to die,” she replied, sprinting down the smoky corridor toward the technical wing.

The next twenty minutes were a blur of gunsmoke, shattering glass, and raw survival. Harper moved through the shadows of the mansion with cold precision, utilizing her knowledge of the estate’s layout to outmaneuver the cartel thugs. She neutralized two intruders who attempted to breach the server room, her hands steady, her mind sharp.

When she finally burst out onto the rear terrace overlooking the cliffs, the battle was reaching its climax.

Roman stood in the center of the courtyard, his clothes stained with soot and blood, his weapons empty, locked in hand-to-hand combat with the leader of the Chicago faction—a hulking brute named Moretti who held a knife to Roman’s throat.

Moretti grinned, pressing the blade deeper into Roman’s skin as blood welled along his collarbone. “It’s over, Russo! Your empire dies tonight!”

Harper raised her pistol, but her hands shook slightly. The distance was too great; a stray bullet could hit Roman.

She didn't hesitate. She dropped the gun, sprinted across the wet stone patio, and threw her entire body weight directly into Moretti’s side like a human missile.

The impact caught the cartel leader off guard. He stumbled sideways, losing his grip on Roman’s throat. Roman didn't waste a second. With a brutal, fluid motion, he drove his elbow upward into Moretti’s jaw, sending the massive man crashing over the low stone retaining wall and down into the rocky surf of the bay far below.

Silence descended upon the courtyard, broken only by the crash of the waves against the cliffs and the sirens of approaching police units that Roman’s loyal captains had finally managed to summon.

Harper collapsed against the stone balustrade, gasping for breath, her hands covered in soot and blood.

Roman crossed the patio in two long strides, dropping to his knees before her. He grabbed her face in his hands, his dark eyes frantically searching her body for wounds.

“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice uncharacteristically frantic. “Harper, look at me. Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she choked out, a breathless laugh escaping her lips as she looked up at him. “You’re bleeding again.”

Roman let out a ragged, disbelieving laugh, pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair. He held her so tightly her ribs ached, his massive frame trembling with the realization of how close he had come to losing her.