1.The Maid's Toddler Cried Alone Behind the Trash Cans—Unaware the Mafia Boss Heard Every Broken Word

By noon the following day, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky over the Duca estate a pale, crisp blue. The autumn leaves carpeted the long driveway in vibrant shades of scarlet and bronze.

In the south garden, Mia was running.

Her small leather boots crunched happily through the dry leaves as she chased Pino, who was trotting ahead of her at a agonizingly slow pace, intentionally letting the little girl "catch" his long black tail every few yards. Whenever she caught him, Mia would collapse into a heap of giggles, wrapping her arms around the massive dog's neck, and Pino would turn his heavy head to give her face a giant, slobbery lick.

From the terrace above, Lorenzo stood with a black espresso cup in his hand, watching them.

Beside him stood Marco, holding a leather folder filled with surveillance reports.

"Carmine Rossi hasn't returned to his villa in Milan," Marco reported, his voice low and businesslike. "He went straight to the warehouse district in Genoa. He's calling in favors from the Corsican syndicates. Word on the street is he’s offered a two-million-euro bounty for your head, Boss."

"Only two million?" Lorenzo remarked dryly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Carmine is getting cheap in his old age."

"He's desperate, Lorenzo," Marco warned, his expression grim. "He promised the Corsicans exclusive access to the northern docks once you were removed. If they mobilize, we could be looking at a full-scale assault on the estate within forty-eight hours."

"They won't attack the estate," Lorenzo said calmly, watching Mia pick up a bright yellow maple leaf and show it to Pino. "Carmine knows my security system. He knows he doesn't have the firepower to breach the perimeter walls without taking massive casualties. He will wait for me to leave."

"Then you shouldn't leave," Marco urged. "Cancel your meeting with the harbor master in Spezia tomorrow."

"No," Lorenzo said, his voice hardening. "If I stay hidden inside my walls like a frightened fox, Carmine wins the psychological war. I go to Spezia tomorrow as planned."

"Then let me bring thirty men—"

"Two cars, Marco," Lorenzo cut him off. "No more. We maintain normal operations. If we show fear, the other families in the syndicate will smell blood in the water."

Before Marco could reply, the iron gates at the far end of the mile-long driveway buzzed over the security intercom.

Marco immediately pulled his radio from his belt. "Gate one, report."

"Boss," the guard's voice came through the speaker, crisp and urgent. "We have a single vehicle at the main gate. A silver Bentley. It's Isabella Rossi."

Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed slightly. Isabella—Don Carmine’s twenty-four-year-old daughter, the woman who was supposed to have been signed into his life as his wife less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Is she accompanied?" Lorenzo asked into Marco's radio.

"No, Boss. Just her driver. She says she wants five minutes with you. She claims she has information regarding her father's movements."

Marco looked at Lorenzo, shaking his head. "It's a trap, Lorenzo. She’s probably carrying a tracking device or trying to buy time."

Lorenzo set his coffee cup down on the stone balustrade. He looked down at the garden, where Renata had just come out onto the terrace, wrapping a soft wool shawl around her shoulders as she called Mia in for lunch. Mia waved enthusiastically at Lorenzo, holding up her yellow leaf like a trophy.

Lorenzo waved back—a small, almost imperceptible flick of his hand that made Mia beam with delight.

"Let her in," Lorenzo commanded quietly. "Search the car at the gate. Bring her to the reception hall. But do not let her near the south wing."

Ten minutes later, Isabella Rossi stood in the grand reception room of the Duca estate.

She was a striking woman—tall, slender, with dark crimson hair styled in flawless waves, wearing a tailored cream trench coat and high-heeled leather boots. Her face was beautiful, but her dark eyes were cold, sharp, and calculated.

When Lorenzo entered the room, she did not smile. She stood by the marble fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest, eyeing him up and down.

"You look remarkably relaxed for a man who just declared war on my father," Isabella said, her voice dripping with smooth, venomous sarcasm.

"You are intruding on my lunch hour, Isabella," Lorenzo said, remaining near the door, his hands resting casually in his pockets. "State your business."

Isabella took three slow steps toward him, her heels clicking loudly on the parquet floor. "My father is insane with rage, Lorenzo. He spent the entire night screaming in his study, breaking crystal glasses, calling every captain in Liguria. He’s going to kill you."

"He is welcome to try," Lorenzo replied flatly.

"He doesn't just want to kill you, Lorenzo," Isabella said, her voice dropping into a low, sinister whisper. "He wants to destroy you. He knows about the maid. He knows about her child."

Lorenzo’s eyes flared with a sudden, lethal light that caused Isabella to stop in her tracks. The air in the room instantly chilled by ten degrees.

"If your father so much as breathes their names," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dangerously soft, "I will personally burn every property the Rossi family owns from here to Sicily, with him locked inside."

Isabella let out a cold, melodic laugh. "Oh, Lorenzo... look at you. The great ice king of Lombardy, losing his mind over a common house servant and a street orphan. Is that who replaced me? A girl who washes floors?"

"She has more honor in her little finger than your entire family possesses in its bloodline," Lorenzo said smoothly.

Isabella’s smile vanished, her face contorting into a ugly sneer of humiliation. She reached into her leather handbag, pulled out a small black USB flash drive, and tossed it onto the coffee table between them.

"My father ordered Matteo to hire three Corsican snipers," Isabella said, her voice tight with suppressed fury. "They know you are traveling to Spezia tomorrow morning. They are setting up on the high ridge above the coastal highway at kilometer marker 42."

Lorenzo looked at the flash drive, then back at Isabella. "Why are you giving me this?"

Isabella stepped closer, her dark eyes flashing. "Because I don't want you dead, Lorenzo. I wanted to be your wife. I wanted to rule this province beside you. If my father kills you, the Corsicans will take everything, and my family will be reduced to beggars within a year. Kill my father if you must... but leave his business to me."

Lorenzo stared at her for a long, silent moment. He saw no mercy in Isabella Rossi’s eyes, no love, no regret—only the cold, calculating ambition of a predator willing to sacrifice her own father to secure a throne.

"Take your drive, Isabella," Lorenzo said, turning toward the door.

Isabella frowned, startled. "What? Don't you want the coordinates?"

"I don't need your drive," Lorenzo said over his shoulder as Marco stepped into the room to escort her out. "Because I am not going to Spezia tomorrow."

"What?" Isabella gasped.