A Mafia Boss Said He’d Marry Me If I Could Sing—He Didn’t Know I Came to Destroy Him...

The mezzanine corridor was muffled by heavy crimson carpet. The brass sconces along the walls flickered like torches in an ancient crypt.

I moved silently, holding the heavy velvet skirt of my gown off the floor so the fabric wouldn't whisper against the baseboards. Ahead of me, Marco Bellini fumbled with a brass keycard, unlocking the door to Private Suite 4B—a VIP lounge reserved for high-stakes business meetings during the gala.

He slipped inside.

I waited five seconds, took a breath, and approached the door. It hadn't clicked shut completely; Bellini had left it cracked an inch, expecting a waiter or an associate.

I pushed it open soundlessly and stepped into the room.

Bellini was standing at an antique roll-top desk, stuffing thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills from a steel lockbox into a black leather briefcase.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Bellini?" I asked.

Bellini spun around so violently he knocked over a heavy brass desk lamp. His hand flew toward his hip, but stopped when he saw only a woman standing before him in an evening gown.

"Who the hell are you?" he wheezed, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve. "This is a private suite. Get out before I have security throw you down the stairs."

"Security is downstairs, Marco," I said, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind me with a soft *click*. "And if you call them, Domenico Moretti will want to know why his harbor liaison is packing two hundred thousand dollars of unregistered cash into a briefcase during his engagement party."

Bellini froze. His watery eyes widened as he took in the sapphire collar around my neck. "You... you're Moretti’s new girl."

"I am his fiancée," I said, keeping my voice chillingly low. "Which means everything in this room belongs to me. Including your secrets."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, his fingers twitching near the lockbox. "This is routine union operational funds. Moretti approved it."

"Moretti didn't approve you skimming from the Atlantic haul," I lied effortlessly, stepping closer. I let my shadow fall over him. I was taller than him in my heels, broader than him, and carrying ten years of suppressed fury. "Just like you skimmed off the Longshoremen’s Local 1804 ten years ago."

At the mention of the union number, the color drained from Bellini’s face entirely. He stumbled backward against the desk.

"How... how do you know about 1804?" he choked out.

"Because Anthony Romano was a better man than you ever were," I whispered, leaning in until he could smell the jasmine perfume on my skin and see the absolute lack of mercy in my eyes. "He trusted you, Marco. And you locked the south fire escape doors on Pier 42 before the first match was struck."

Bellini began to shake. "No... no, you don't understand! I didn't have a choice! Old man Moretti told me if I didn't lock the doors, they would put my wife and daughter into the harbor in a steel drum!"

"Old man Moretti is dead," I spat. "His son runs the family now. And you are still taking blood money for my father’s murder."

Bellini gasped, staring at my face as if looking through a ghost. "Your father... Romano? Beatrice? Little Bea?"

"Do not speak my name with your filthy mouth," I hissed, grabbing him by the lapels of his tuxedo and slamming him back against the wall. The desk rattled. The silver lockbox clattered to the floor. "Where are the manifests? Where is the original paperwork for Pier 42 that proved my father held the municipal lease?"

"I don't have them!" Bellini cried out in a strangled voice. "Domenico does! He keeps all the old transition archives in the vault at the Hudson estate! In the basement study behind the wine cellar! He has the original ledgers, the arson reports the fire chief suppressed, everything! He never threw them away!"

"Why?" I demanded, tightening my grip until his collar choked him. "Why would Domenico keep evidence of his father’s crime?"

"Because Domenico didn't trust his father!" Bellini sobbed. "Domenico was twenty-four when it happened! When he took over the family five years ago, he audited every dock, every murder, every dollar his father ever touched! He kept the files to keep leverage on the old capos who executed the hit!"

My mind spun. Domenico hadn't ordered the fire. He had inherited it. But he had kept the evidence to control the wolves who had carried out the butchery.

Suddenly, the suite door swung open with explosive force.

Domenico stood on the threshold.

His eyes swept over the scene in a fraction of a second: Marco Bellini pinned against the wall, terror in his eyes, and me holding him by his throat in my velvet gown.

Domenico didn't draw a gun. He slowly closed the door behind him and locked it.