The Mafia Boss Buried His Brother Six Weeks Ago—Then Caught Him Hiding in His Maid's Bed with Evidence That Saved His Life

The click of Adrian terminating the call with the wedding coordinator hung heavily in the apartment. He pocketed his phone, pulled out the remaining wooden chair at the table, and sat down. His broad shoulders dominated the small space, making the modest kitchen feel claustrophobic. His sharp eyes scanned the papers spread across the surface, moving with terrifying speed and comprehension.

""Where did you get these access records?"" Adrian demanded, tapping a manicured finger against a log from the estate’s private security server.

""I took them from the study trash bins,"" Norah replied evenly, leaning against the kitchen counter with her arms folded defensively. ""And the financial sheets were left inside the secondary guest suite when the Rosetti family envoys stayed over last Tuesday. They assumed the maid changing the towels couldn't read an offshore balance sheet.""

Adrian looked up at her, a strange, calculating expression softening the harsh lines of his face. ""You're an accountant.""

""I was two semesters away from a degree in forensic auditing before my mother's chemotherapy bills bankrupted us,"" Norah said, lifting her chin. ""I know how money moves. Numbers have destinations, Mr. Moretti. When six million dollars flows from a floral contractor into a private security firm registered in the Cayman Islands under Isabella Rosetti’s maiden initials, it isn't paying for white lilies. It's paying for guns.""

Matteo leaned forward, wincing slightly. ""She played you, Adrian. She knew you were tired of the bloodshed on the West Side. She offered an olive branch, wrapped it in silk, and waited for you to put down your guard. The moment you married her, the Rosetti family would hold the legal title to our deep-water port terminals. With me out of the picture, all they needed to do was stage an 'unfortunate drive-by' at the cathedral reception. She becomes the grieving widow, inherits the entire syndicate, and consolidates the territory.""

Adrian picked up a surveillance photograph showing Isabella meeting with a tall, scarred man in the basement garage of a downtown steakhouse. ""Marco Vane,"" Adrian murmured, his jaw hardening until a muscle jumped beneath his cheek. ""He's supposed to be running security for their family’s private clubs. What was he doing at the logistics hub three days before your accident?""

""He was the one who rammed Matteo’s car off Route 41,"" Norah provided, pulling out an invoice showing a front-bumper replacement on an armored Ford truck completed at an unlicensed chop shop forty-eight hours after Matteo's disappearance. ""I tracked the repair order through the supplier’s automated shipping manifest. The parts were billed to an account tied directly to Marco’s personal LLC.""

Adrian closed his eyes for three seconds. When he opened them, the grief that had haunted him for six weeks was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. He looked at Norah not as a servant, but as the most formidable weapon he had encountered in years.

""Pack a bag, Norah,"" Adrian said softly, his tone brook no argument.

""Excuse me?"" Norah blinked.

""You're not staying here,"" Adrian replied, standing up and towering over the table. ""The moment Isabella realizes the wedding has been called off, she will know someone found the breach. Her people monitor our external estate logs. If they trace Matteo back to this building, you will be their first target. From this second forward, you belong to my personal protection circle. You're coming back to the estate.""