A Little Girl Stopped the Mafia Boss’s Wedding and Called His Bride a Traitor, but the Man Who Smiled at Her Panic Had Been Waiting Fifteen Years for That Moment

The rain began to fall just before midnight, drumming a relentless, heavy rhythm against the iron bars of the estate's eastern service gate.

The wind howled through the old pine trees, bending their heavy branches and casting long, ghostly shadows across the gravel path.

A lone figure in a heavy, dark hooded coat emerged from the treeline. He walked with a swift, purposeful stride, his head ducked low against the driving rain. He reached the gate, checked his watch, and let out a low whistle—the prearranged signal.

Seconds later, footsteps crunched on the gravel behind him.

“You’re late,” a raspy voice muttered from beneath the hood.

“Am I?”

The voice that answered didn't belong to Vanessa Hale.

The hooded figure spun around, his hand flying toward his coat pocket. But before his fingers could wrap around the grip of his weapon, a heavy boot struck his wrist with bone-crushing force.

Crack.

The man cried out in agony, stumbling backward against the iron bars of the gate.

Out of the driving rain, three Moretti enforcers materialized, pinning him to the fence before he could draw breath. Luca Marino stepped forward, reached out, and ripped the heavy hood back.

Revealed in the pale glow of the security light was the terrified face of Marcus Vance—Victor Vance’s younger brother and primary enforcer.

“Well, well,” Luca said, a grim smile touching his lips as he tapped the hidden recording device clipped inside his lapel. “Marcus Vance. Traveling all the way from Boston just to pick up trash from a garden gate. Your brother must be so proud.”