The most feared mafia boss in New York pretended to sleep because he suspected his new maid was hiding something from him

The heavy oak front doors of the estate exploded inward with a deafening crash as a breaching charge blew the deadbolts from their frames. Splintered wood and thick smoke filled the foyer as armed men in tactical gear poured into the grand hall, their weapon lights cutting through the darkness like furious laser beams.

"Clear the ground floor!" a harsh voice shouted. It was Leo Moretti, a ruthless thirty-year-old psychopath who had built his reputation on unbridled violence. "Find Hale! Search every room! Bring me his head and find those damn logbooks!"

From my vantage point at the top of the dark staircase, I watched them fan out across the marble floor. They moved with the confidence of men who believed they held the element of surprise. They had no idea that every step they took was monitored by my men stationed behind hidden panels and on the upper balconies.

I raised my pistol and picked off the lead tactical officer with a single, silenced shot to the chest. He dropped instantly without a sound.

"Sniper upper level!" Leo screamed as his men scattered for cover behind the heavy stone pillars of the foyer.

Instantly, the quiet night erupted into chaos. Automatic gunfire tore through the grand hall, shattering the crystal chandeliers above and turning the priceless antique artwork on the walls to shreds. Plaster dust rained down like white snow as my men opened fire from the upper walkways, catching Leo's hit squad in a deadly crossfire.

"Fallback to the parlor!" Leo ordered, his voice echoing with rising panic as three of his men fell in quick succession under the overwhelming volume of defensive fire.

The Moretti mercenaries scrambled backward, firing wildly at the balconies while retreating into the large living room—the very room where Sofia had covered me with a blanket just days prior.

I signaled to Marcus, who was leading a team from the east wing corridor. "Flush them out," I commanded through my tactical earpiece. "Do not let Leo reach the west wing."

I moved swiftly down the side staircase, taking cover behind a heavy marble pillar near the entrance of the parlor. Glass was scattered everywhere, and the smell of ozone, cordite, and copper filled the air.

Through the smoke, I saw Leo Moretti crouched behind the heavy leather sofa, frantically trying to reload his rifle. His face was covered in sweat and grime, the cocky arrogance he had entered with completely vanished.

"Hale!" Leo yelled toward the doorway, his voice cracking with desperation. "You think you can win this? My father has a hundred more men on the way! You’re finished in this city!"

I stepped out from behind the pillar into the doorway, my gun raised, perfectly calm amid the surrounding destruction.

"Your father sent you to do a man's job, Leo," I said, my voice cutting through the ringing ears of the surviving gunmen. "And just like Vincent Russo, he miscalculated."

Leo spun around, raising his rifle, but I was faster. A double-tap to his shoulder severed his grip on the weapon, sending it clattering across the hardwood floor. He dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding arm and screaming in agony.

The remaining four Moretti mercenaries immediately threw down their weapons and raised their hands, realizing their leader had been incapacitated and they were completely surrounded by a dozen of my heavily armed guards.

Marcus stepped into the room, sweeping the surrendered men with his rifle before kicking Leo's fallen weapon out of reach.

"Secure them," I ordered Marcus coldly. "Bind them, put them in the basement, and call our medical team to patch up Leo. I need him alive."

"What about the rest of the Moretti family?" Marcus asked, gesturing toward the mess in the foyer.

"Carmine is sitting in his mansion in Brooklyn, waiting for a phone call from his son," I said, checking my watch. It was 3:15 AM. "Let's make sure he gets it."

I walked over to Leo, who was squirming on the floor in pain. I reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his encrypted satellite phone, and pressed the speed dial for his father.

The line rang twice before a gravelly, aged voice answered.

"Leo? Is it done? Is Hale dead?" Carmine Moretti asked eagerly.

I held the phone to my ear, stepping over the shattered glass on the floor.

"He's not dead, Carmine," I said smoothly into the receiver. "In fact, he's never felt more alive."

Silence hung on the other end of the line for a long, heavy moment.

"Daniel," Carmine's voice rasped, suddenly sounding fifty years older. "Where is my son?"

"Leo is resting in my cellar," I replied, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "And tomorrow morning, you and I are going to have a meeting at Dock 19. If you aren't there alone by six AM, I will ship your son back to you in four separate boxes. Do you understand me?"