The Mafia Boss Thought He Had Hired an Ordinary Nanny—Until She Walked Into His Death Ring and Tamed His $1.4 Million Stallion with a Single Touch

The call came at 4:15 AM from an encrypted burner phone Tristan kept in his desk drawer.

"Boss," Tristan's voice crackled through the speaker, strained and breathless. "We have a problem. A big one."

Weston was already standing by the window of his private study, fully dressed in a black tactical turtleneck and wool trousers. He hadn't slept. He had spent the last three hours sitting in the dark, watching the third-floor window of Holly's room until the light finally went out.

"Talk to me," Weston said coldly.

"Salvatore didn't go back to Boston," Tristan reported rapidly. "My scouts at the marina just intercepted a wiretap. Vince made a deal with the Chicago council. They're hitting the estate at dawn. Not to negotiate—to wipe us out. They think if they take you out, Mary becomes leverage, and the whole eastern corridor falls into their lap."

A terrifying silence hung on the line.

"And Holly?" Weston asked, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the desk.

"They know about her," Tristan said grimly. "One of Salvatore's fixers recognized her from an old federal bulletin out of Washington. They think she's the leak who gave the feds the logistics map on the smuggling ring three years ago. They're coming for her, Weston. Alive if possible, in a body bag if necessary."

Weston slowly closed his eyes. When he opened them, every trace of humanity had vanished from his face. What remained was the Ice King—the ruthless syndicate boss who had built an empire on blood, iron, and absolute control.

"Tristan," Weston said softly.

"Yeah, boss?"

"Lock down the main house. Move Mary and Holly to the panic room behind the wine cellar."