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

"Do not move," Domenico said.

His voice was dead. The warmth, the amusement, the possessive fire from the gala—all of it had been replaced by the terrifying, clinical detachment of an executioner.

Behind him, Lorenzo appeared in the doorway, a submachine gun held across his chest, his eyes cold and ready.

"She used the fire date," Lorenzo muttered. "I told you she knew too much."

I stood behind the desk, my hands flat against the cold metal, my father’s autopsy report resting beneath my palms. The fear that had lived in my bones for ten years suddenly evaporated, burned away by the sheer absurdity of the tragedy.

"Shoot me, then," I said. My voice didn't waver. It echoed through the concrete vault with operatic clarity.

Domenico took two slow steps into the room. He didn't lower the gun. "Who are you? And do not give me that pathetic Hughes alias. You broke into a vault that three federal agencies have failed to locate for a decade."

"You already know who I am, Domenico," I said, meeting his lethal gaze. "Look at the desk. Look at the file I am touching."

Domenico’s eyes dropped to the papers under my hands: *Anthony Romano.*

For the first time since I had met him, I saw a crack in Domenico Moretti’s armor. His pupils dilated. His hand holding the Beretta dropped half an inch.

"Romano," he breathed.

"Beatrice Romano," I said, lifting my chin. "The girl whose life you thought you bought with a five-million-dollar trust for her dying mother. The daughter of the man your family claimed they burned alive."

Lorenzo cursed under his breath, raising his weapon toward my head. "Boss, she's an infiltrator. She came to put a knife in your throat. Let me end this."

"Lower your weapon, Lorenzo," Domenico commanded, without turning around.

"Boss—"

"I said lower it!" Domenico roared, his voice echoing off the concrete walls like a blast of artillery.

Lorenzo hesitated, then lowered the barrel toward the floor, stepping back into the cellar shadows.

Domenico slowly lowered his Beretta. He clicked the safety on and slid the weapon into his shoulder holster. He walked toward the desk until he was separated from me only by the width of the open binder.

"You came to destroy me," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a realization.

"Yes," I replied, refusing to blink. "I took your wager at the club. I sang your aria. I took your ring. I planned to find the documents that would send you to a federal penitentiary for the rest of your unnatural life. I wanted to watch your empire burn the way my father’s warehouse burned."

"And now?" Domenico asked, gesturing toward the papers on the desk. "Now that you have read the truth?"

"Now I know that Carmine Marcone killed my father," I whispered, tears of rage finally burning my eyes. "And that your family was cowardly enough to take credit for it to keep their reputation on the streets."

Domenico didn't defend his father. He didn't offer excuses.

"My father was a monster," Domenico said quietly. "He believed fear was the only currency that mattered. When Marcone burned Pier 42, my father let the city believe he ordered it because he was terrified the other families would think he was weak if he admitted Brooklyn had struck his docks without his permission."

Domenico reached across the desk. His fingers gently touched the corner of the autopsy report.

"I found out the truth five years ago when my father died of cancer," Domenico continued, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned through my flesh. "I have spent five years systematically strangling Marcone’s operations. Pier 42 was rebuilt with union money under my administration. But I couldn't find you. Your mother hid you too well."

"And then I spilled wine on Camilla’s dress," I said, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping my lips.

"And then you opened your mouth and sang," Domenico whispered. "Do you know what I heard that night, Beatrice? I didn't just hear Callas. I heard grief. I heard an old ghost demanding vengeance. I didn't know you were Romano’s daughter. But I knew you were the only woman in this city who looked at me without fear."

He walked around the desk.

I didn't back away. When he stopped in front of me, he reached out and took my right hand. He brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckle where his diamond ring sat.

"I am still going to marry you, Beatrice Romano," he said.

"Why?" I choked out. "I lied to you. I broke into your vault. I wanted you dead."

"Because you are the rightful heir to the harbor," Domenico answered, his eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "And tomorrow night, at the cathedral, we are going to bury the ghosts of Pier 42."

He paused, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet promise.