"His Fiancée Struck the Plus-Size Maid Before Everyone — Then the Mafia Boss Did Something No One Expected

Julian Vance was a man who wore expensive Italian tailoring like armor to conceal the rotten core beneath. Tall, slick, with an oily smile and cold, reptilian eyes, he ruled the city's smuggling docks with an iron fist, but had long coveted Ronan Blackwood’s throne.

From the second-floor gallery overlooking the entrance foyer, Ivy paused as she carried a stack of cataloging slips back toward the East Wing. Below, the front doors swung open, and Vivien Hail was there to greet Vance before Malcolm could even announce him.

Ivy shrank behind the shadows of a marble balustrade, not out of cowardice, but out of caution.

"Julian," Vivien purred, extending a slender hand, which Vance kissed with lingering familiarity. "You're late."

"Traffic near the docks, my dear," Vance replied smoothly. "Is the beast in his cage?"

"He's in the library, playing patron of the arts with his little pet," Vivien spat, her tone dripping with venom. "Did you bring the papers?"

"Everything is prepared," Vance whispered, patting the inside pocket of his coat. "Three bearer bonds, registered under the stolen serial numbers from the Jersey bank raid last month. Once they are found in her quarters during the Solstice gala, Ronan will have to turn her over to my port marshals for interrogation. And once she is in my custody, she won't be talking about anything ever again."

"Good," Vivien smiled, a cold, predatory gleam in her eyes. "And what about our other arrangement?"

"The shipments at Pier 9 will be redirected while Ronan is busy dealing with the fallout of the scandal. Your father gets forty percent, and I get the Blackwood supply lines."

Ivy backed away from the balustrade, her heart pounding frantically against her ribs.

A frame-up. They weren't just trying to get her fired; they were planning to accuse her of federal cartel theft and hand her over to Vance’s butchers. And worse—they were orchestrating a massive betrayal against Ronan’s empire right under his own roof.

She turned on her heel and hurried down the corridor toward Ronan’s private study, but before she could reach the double doors, a heavy hand caught her wrist.

"Going somewhere in a hurry, little bookworm?"

Ivy gasped, turning to face Marco, one of Vivien Hail’s personal bodyguards who had been brought into the manor under the guise of an escort. His grin was cruel, his grip bruising.

"Let go of me," Ivy commanded, trying to wrench her arm free.

"Miss Hail told me to keep an eye on you," Marco sneered, dragging her toward an empty sitting room. "She doesn't like you wandering around where you don't belong."

"I work directly for Mr. Blackwood!"

"Mr. Blackwood isn't here, sweetheart. And out here, you're just another servant who needs to learn her—"

The sound of shattering wood silenced him.

A heavy hand seized Marco by the throat from behind, lifting the two-hundred-pound man off his feet with savage, terrifying leverage, and slammed him against the wainscoted wall.

Ronan stood there, his eyes ablaze with murderous fury. His fingers were locked around the guard's windpipe like an iron vice.

"What did you just touch?" Ronan asked, his voice so quiet, so deadly, that the temperature in the corridor seemed to plummet below freezing.

"M-Mr. Blackwood—I was only—" Marco choked, his feet dangling an inch off the floor, his face turning dark purple.

"You touched what is mine," Ronan whispered.

With a sickening crack, Ronan drove his fist into the man's ribs, dropping him to the Persian rug where Marco curled into a groaning ball of agony. Ronan didn't even look down at the fallen guard. He stepped over him, his chest heaving slightly, and pulled Ivy behind his back.

"Are you hurt?" Ronan demanded, his voice instantly softening as he took her trembling hands into his own.

"No," Ivy breathed, clinging to his strong fingers. "No, Ronan—listen to me. You have to listen. Vivien and Julian Vance... they're planning something. They brought stolen bonds. They're going to plant them in my room tonight during the gala, and Vance is moving on Pier 9!"

Ronan went completely still. The storm in his eyes did not diminish; it consolidated into a diamond-hard point of absolute, lethal focus.

"Is that so?" he murmured.

"I heard them in the foyer. They're trying to destroy you from the inside."

Ronan looked down at Ivy, his thumb gently smoothing over the back of her hand where Marco’s fingers had left a faint red mark. The gentleness of his touch stood in terrifying contrast to the violence he had just unleashed on the guard.