New The Housekeeper’s Four-Year-Old Daughter Gave Her Last EpiPen to a Dying Mafia Boss and Made Him Cry for the First Time in Twenty Years

The master guest suite of the Moretti estate was larger than Hannah’s entire apartment in Astoria. A massive king-sized bed dominated the center of the room, draped in heavy velvet curtains, while a crystal chandelier cast a soft, golden glow across the antique mahogany furniture.

Yet, to Hannah, it felt like a gilded cage.

She sat on the edge of the velvet mattress, watching Ellie sleep peacefully under a thick down comforter. The little girl’s breathing was steady, rhythmic, completely oblivious to the fact that they were currently trapped inside the fortress of the most dangerous man in New York.

A soft knock echoed at the double oak doors.

Hannah froze. She slipped off the bed, tiptoed across the Persian rug, and opened the door a crack.

A middle-aged woman in a crisp black-and-white maid's uniform stood outside, holding a silver tray laden with a steaming bowl of chicken soup, fresh fruit, and a warm glass of milk. Behind her stood two large guards in dark suits.

“Good evening, Mrs. Carter,” the woman said with a polite, practiced bow. “Mr. Moretti instructed me to bring dinner for you and the young miss. My name is Martha. I am the head housekeeper.”

Hannah swallowed hard, stepping back to let her enter. “Thank you, Martha. But… we aren't hungry. We just want to go home.”

Martha set the tray down on a small marble table near the bed. She looked at Hannah with a mixture of sympathy and caution. “Nobody leaves the estate tonight, child. Not after what happened in the study. Mr. Moretti does not make exceptions lightly, but the fact that you two are still breathing means he considers you under his personal protection.”

“Protection from what?” Hannah whispered. “From whoever tried to poison him?”

“From everything,” Martha replied grimly. “Mr. Moretti’s enemies are ruthless. If someone tried to take him out from the inside, it means someone on the domestic staff was compromised. Until Marcus finds out who planted that poison, the entire house is on lockdown.”

Martha turned and walked toward the door, pausing just before she exited. “Eat the soup. And try to get some rest. The boss will want to speak with you in the morning.”

As the heavy door clicked shut, Hannah felt a cold shiver run down her spine. She walked over to the tall arched window and looked out over the sprawling, manicured lawns toward the iron gates. Beyond the gates lay the dark, churning waters of the Long Island Sound.

They were completely cut off from the world.

Down in the subterranean basement levels of the mansion, far beneath the grand ballrooms and guest suites, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful.

The estate's private security dungeon—a soundproofed holding room traditionally used for interrogating rivals—was currently occupied by a single man.

Vincent Bellini sat bound to a heavy metal chair, his gray hair slightly disheveled, his expensive silk vest stained with sweat. He stared across the bare concrete room at Marcus Vance, who stood leaning against a concrete pillar, spinning a silver pocketknife between his thick fingers.

“You’ve served this family for twenty years, Vincent,” Marcus said, his voice dangerously calm. “Twenty years. Mr. Moretti trusted you with his wine, his schedule, his life.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, Marcus,” Vincent said, his voice trembling slightly, though he maintained an air of wounded dignity. “Why would I hurt the boss? I helped raise him!”

“Did you?” Marcus walked over, slamming his hand against the back of Vincent’s chair. The older man flinched. “We checked the reflection off the courtyard glass like the boss suggested. The camera angle from the east wing caught the entire reflection of the beverage room. We saw you pull the blue vial from your vest pocket. We saw you drop it into the Barolo.”

Vincent’s breath hitched. The facade of the loyal, grandfatherly butler cracked, revealing a cold, calculating spark in his eyes.

“He’s destroying us, Marcus,” Vincent spat out, his voice dropping its trembling facade. “Moretti’s obsession with his dead wife and child has paralyzed this organization. He stopped expanding into the docks. He ignored the Syndicate council in Chicago. He’s weak! A boss who mourns is a dead boss, and he was dragging all of us down with him!”

“So you decided to play executioner?” A voice echoed from the shadows near the heavy iron door.

Marcus stepped aside.

Adrian Moretti walked into the harsh glare of the overhead bulb. He had changed into a tailored charcoal suit, his shirt buttoned to the top, though he wore no tie. His face was carved from granite, his eyes locked onto the man who had served him for two decades.

Vincent swallowed hard, looking up at the man he had betrayed. “Adrian… listen to me. It was business. The council wanted a change in leadership—”

“The council,” Adrian interrupted softly. He stopped two feet away from the chair. “You think a few old men in Chicago give a damn about my shipping lines? Or did they promise you a cut of the eastern seaboard when I was gone?”

Vincent didn’t answer. He couldn't.

Adrian slowly reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small, heavy silver cigarette case. He didn't light a cigarette; he just turned it over in his hands.

“Twenty years, Vincent,” Adrian whispered, his voice dangerously low. “When my father died, you stood by my side. When Elena and Lily were taken from me, you brought me whiskey and told me you would take care of the household so I could grieve in peace.”

“Adrian—”

“And all the while, you were keeping a tally,” Adrian continued, his eyes locking onto Vincent’s. “You hated that I stopped the bloodshed. You hated that I didn't want to burn the city down over a parking dispute. You wanted the old days back.”

“If I don't do it, someone else will!” Vincent shouted, desperation finally breaking through his composure. “You can't rule an empire with a broken heart! You’re soft, Adrian! That little girl upstairs proved it! She walked into your study and you let her live! You let her inject you with her own medicine! You’re losing your grip!”

Adrian didn't blink. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers once.

Marcus stepped forward, drawing a heavy black silencer from his coat and screwing it onto the barrel of his pistol.