The mafia boss came home early and found the maid’s little girl holding his crystal glass—but one tiny crescent scratch revealed someone had been secretly changing his house for months.

Adrian led the retreat through the winding, service corridors of the estate, moving like a phantom through his own home. He knew every loose floorboard, every blind spot in the architectural layout.

Behind them, three more hostile operatives entered the north wing, their heavy boots crunching over shattered glass.

Adrian signaled for Grace and Lily to duck behind a heavy copper service counter in the pantry. He slipped into the shadows behind the industrial refrigerator, holding his breath.

Two armed intruders entered the pantry in tactical formation, their rifle-mounted lights cutting through the darkness like twin swords. They were dressed in sterile, unmarked black uniforms—no patches, no insignia. Professional mercenaries hired through deep-web escrows.

As the second man walked past the pantry rack, Adrian struck.

He grabbed the man by the throat from behind, twisting violently to snap his neck while simultaneously using his falling body as a human shield against the lead shooter.

The first mercenary spun around and fired, bullets chewing through his comrade’s tactical vest. Adrian returned fire from around the dead man’s shoulder, putting two clean rounds through the lead shooter's visor.

Both men dropped heavily to the linoleum floor.

Adrian stepped over the bodies, his eyes catching a faint glimmer of gold around the neck of the fallen lead mercenary. He leaned down and hooked his finger under the collar, ripping away a gold medallion that had spilled out during the struggle.

It was an antique St. Jude medal, engraved on the reverse side with initials: *M. M.*

Adrian’s breath hitched in his chest. A cold, venomous fury ignited in his veins.

*M. M. Matteo Moretti.* His first cousin. His consigliere. The man who sat at his right hand during every council meeting and handled the family’s European investments.

Matteo had always pretended to be the humble scholar, the man who preferred ledgers to bullets. But the greed of an envious cousin was an ancient disease, and Matteo had finally decided he was tired of waiting for Adrian to die of natural causes.

"Boss," Silvio’s voice came over an earpiece salvaged from the dead mercenary. "We secured the gatehouse. Dante is neutralized. But we intercepted an encrypted radio broadcast heading toward the downtown marina."

"What did it say?" Adrian demanded, his voice dangerously low.

"It said: *The king is dead. Prepare the council chamber for the new Don.*"

Adrian looked at the dead man at his feet, then looked over at Lily, who was peering out from behind the counter, her eyes wide with solemn wonder.