THE MAFIA WIFE WHO CAUGHT HER MOTHER-IN-LAW BREAKING THE HOUSEKEEPER—THEN FOUND THE SECRET DAUGHTER WHO COULD DESTROY THEIR EMPIRE

The resignation letter struck the marble counter at the same moment a gunshot cracked through the garden.

Teresa screamed.

Isabella Romano caught her before her knees hit the floor, one arm circling the older woman’s waist while the other reached automatically beneath the pale blue silk of her blouse.

Her fingers closed around the small pistol strapped against her ribs.

Outside the kitchen windows, men in black suits moved through the rain. One vaulted the low wall beside the rose garden. Another drew his weapon and shouted toward the eastern gate.

A second shot followed.

The glass above the sink exploded.

Isabella turned, shielding Teresa with her body as fragments scattered across the counter.

“Down.”

Teresa clutched her arm.

“Mrs. Romano—”

“Down, Teresa.”

The housekeeper sank behind the kitchen island.

Isabella drew her weapon and aimed toward the broken window.

Footsteps thundered through the corridor.

Marco DeLuca, head of security for the Romano family, entered first, gun raised. Two guards followed him.

“West wall,” he said. “Shooter is outside the property.”

“Was anyone hit?”

“Not inside.”

Marco’s attention moved to Teresa, then to the white sheet of paper lying beside the fruit bowl.

The resignation letter.

Teresa’s handwriting trembled across the page.

Please accept my resignation effective immediately.

Isabella’s chest tightened.

She looked at Teresa properly for the first time.

Teresa Alvarez was fifty-two, proud, stubborn, and usually impossible to frighten. She had worked in the Romano household for three years. She had cared for Isabella after surgery, driven Alex’s father to the hospital during his final stroke, and quietly loaned Isabella a black shawl at the funeral because Grace Romano had criticized her dress.

She had never missed work without calling.

She sent most of every paycheck to her son Mateo, who was completing nursing school.

Now her face was gray.

Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold herself upright.

One wrist was wrapped in a stained bandage.

“What happened?” Isabella asked.

“Nothing.”

“Teresa.”

The older woman looked toward the corridor as if someone might be standing there.

“Not you,” she whispered. “Not Mr. Alex.”

Isabella lowered her gun.

Marco remained near the windows, listening to the radio clipped at his shoulder.

“Shooter is gone,” one of the guards reported. “Black sedan heading south.”

“Get the plate,” Marco ordered.

Isabella crouched in front of Teresa.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

Teresa wiped her face with the corner of her apron.

“My hands barely work anymore. At night, I can hardly hold a spoon.”

Isabella took her fingers carefully.

The joints were swollen. Red burns crossed the base of her thumb. Her palms were rough and cracked.

It made no sense.

The Romano estate was enormous, but Teresa did not maintain it alone. A full cleaning team came twice a week. The house had industrial washers, dryers, dishwashers, and more staff than most hotels.

Alex and Isabella rarely ate at home.

There was not enough ordinary work to leave Teresa looking broken.

“You’re seeing a doctor today,” Isabella said.

Teresa shook her head.

“I’ll pay.”

“No.”

“Then paid leave.”

“I can’t stay.”

“You can.”

“No, Mrs. Romano.”

The formality struck Isabella harder than the shattered window.

Teresa had called her Bella from the second month of her employment.

Only Grace insisted on Mrs. Romano.

“Why do you need to leave?”

Teresa looked at the resignation letter.

“I’d rather lose this job than let that woman destroy my body.”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Even Marco turned.

Isabella’s voice softened.

“What woman?”

Teresa pressed her lips together.

The terror in her eyes was not vague.

It had a name.

Isabella knew it before she asked.

“Has someone from Alex’s family been coming here?”

Teresa’s face answered first.

Then her knees gave out.

Isabella caught her.

“They said they would accuse me of stealing jewelry,” Teresa sobbed. “Mrs. Grace said nobody would believe someone like me over her family.”

A cold anger spread through Isabella.

Not hot.

Not wild.

Something sharper.

“How long?”

“Almost five months.”

Five months.

While Isabella worked at the Romano Foundation and Alex spent his days controlling the shipping companies, restaurants, clubs, and political favors that formed the respectable face of the Romano empire, Grace and Fiona had been entering their home.

Using their machines.

Their electricity.

Their staff.

Their name.

Teresa covered her face.

“They bring clothes. Blankets. Curtains. Things from their friends. Mrs. Grace says I must wash everything. Miss Fiona makes me iron until my fingers stop moving.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“They know where Mateo lives.”

Isabella’s stomach tightened.

“What did they say?”

“Mrs. Grace knows people at Saint Matthew’s Hospital. She said one call could make the school believe Mateo stole medicine.”

That was how Grace Romano threatened people.

Not with a knife.

With reputation.

With doors closing quietly.

With a future collapsing before the victim understood who had pushed it.

Isabella rose.

Marco watched her.

“Move Mateo to the safe apartment on Ninth,” she said.

Teresa shook her head violently.

“No. They’ll know.”

“They already know where he lives.”

“Mrs. Romano—”

“You are not facing them alone.”

Teresa stared up at her.

Isabella heard the words she had spoken and felt their weight.

In the Romano world, protection was not a kindness.

It was a declaration.

Sometimes a promise.

Sometimes a threat.

Sometimes the first step toward war.

Marco’s radio crackled.

“We found something on the eastern path.”

He stepped outside, then returned carrying a clear evidence bag.

Inside was a brass cartridge casing wrapped in black paper.

Three words had been written across it in white ink.

ASK ABOUT DANIEL.

Isabella looked at Teresa.

The older woman seemed confused.

Marco was not.

His expression changed by a fraction.

“What?” Isabella asked.

“Nothing.”

“Marco.”

He looked toward the hallway.

“Mr. Romano needs to see this.”

“He will. After you tell me what you know.”

“I know the name Mercer.”

“Daniel Mercer?”

Marco’s jaw tightened.

“I heard it once. Years ago. Alex’s father was alive.”

“And?”

“There was an argument at the lake house. Grace ordered every guard present to forget the name.”

Before Isabella could ask more, the front doors opened.

Alex Romano entered with rain darkening his black coat.

He had come directly from the city courthouse, where one of the rival families had challenged a shipping contract. His tie was loosened. His dark hair was wet. The scar near his left temple showed beneath the harsh kitchen lights.

Men followed him, but he dismissed them with one glance.

His attention went first to Isabella.

Always to Isabella.

He crossed the kitchen, placed one hand against the back of her neck, and looked her over.

“Were you hit?”

“No.”

“Glass?”

“Nothing touched me.”

His thumb moved beneath her ear, checking her pulse.

“Alex.”

“Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”