He Chose His Mistress Over My Dying Call—Now The Mafia King Is Begging On His Knees

Wood splintered with a deafening crack.

Three men in dark tactical gear burst into the diner, automatic pistols raised, suppressors attached to the barrels.

""Caruso!"" a harsh voice barked with a heavy Eastern European accent. ""We told you that leaving the Commission had a retirement fee!""

It was the Petrov syndicate—Vincent's bitterest rivals from the Brooklyn docks. They had tracked Vincent’s Maybach all the way from New York, waiting for the untouchable mafia boss to isolate himself outside of his fortress without his security detail.

In a fraction of a second, the shattered, weeping broken man on the floor vanished.

Vincent’s mafia instincts exploded into action. With a feral roar, Vincent lunged forward, grabbing Emma by the waist and hurling her behind the heavy cast-iron cooking range just as the first suppressed round shattered the glass pie display above her head.

Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!

Bullets chewed through the wood paneling, sending ceramic mugs, glass coffee pots, and splinters flying in all directions.

""Stay down!"" Vincent roared, shielding her body entirely with his own, using his broad back as a human barrier against the incoming fire.

A heavy bullet ripped through Vincent’s left shoulder with a sickening wet crunch. He grunted, his body jolting violently, but he didn't move an inch off Emma. Blood immediately soaked through his coat, hot and thick, spilling onto Emma's hands as she clung to him in shock.

""Vincent!"" she screamed, the terror in her voice visceral and real.

""I've got you, Em,"" Vincent wheezed through clenched teeth, blood bubbling on his lips. ""I won't let them touch you. Not this time. Never again.""

With his uninjured right arm, Vincent reached under the counter, grabbed a heavy iron skillet, and hurled it with terrifying force at the lead gunman. The iron smashed into the assassin's face with a crunch of bone, dropping him instantly.

Vincent grabbed the fallen assassin's dropped firearm from the floor, rolled across the linoleum, and fired two precise, lethal double-taps into the chests of the remaining two hitmen.

They dropped like stones.

Silence descended on the wrecked diner, broken only by the hiss of escaping steam from the punctured espresso machine and Vincent's ragged, shallow breathing.

Vincent collapsed onto his side, his back resting against the shattered front counter. The front of his shirt was drenched in crimson. His skin was turning an ashen, translucent gray.

Emma scrambled out from behind the grill on her hands and knees, ignoring the shattered glass cutting into her palms. She threw herself down beside him, pressing both hands against the gaping wound in his chest to stem the torrential bleeding.

""Vincent! Look at me! Vincent!"" she sobbed, tears streaming freely down her face.

Vincent looked up at her, his eyes dimming, but a faint, peaceful smile touched his bloody lips. He weakly raised his trembling, bloodstained hand, brushing his thumb against her cheek to wipe away a tear.

""You called me... at St. Bridget's,"" he whispered, his voice fading into a thread. ""And I didn't come. But tonight... I got to take the bullet for you. Fair trade, Em. Fair trade.""

""Shut up! Don't you dare talk like that!"" Emma cried out, pulling her apron off and packing it frantically into the wound. ""Clara! Call an ambulance! Somebody help him!""