The Maid’s Daughter Called the Mafia Boss After Her Mother Was Fired, but One Wolf Ring and a Hospital Receipt Exposed the Traitor Hidden Inside His Estate

Midnight.

The storm had passed, leaving the port of Palermo bathed in the pale, cold glow of a full moon.

At Dock 14, an abandoned grain freighter sat tied to rusted iron pilings, its dark hull looming over the still water.

A dark Mercedes sedan pulled onto the pier, its headlights cutting off as it came to a halt fifty yards from the ship. Victor Volkov stepped out of the rear seat, surrounded by four heavily armed Russian bodyguards.

Volkov adjusted his expensive fur-collared coat, looking around the quiet docks with an annoyed crease between his heavy brows.

"Where is he?" Volkov growled in heavily accented Italian. "Vance said he had the final security files from Moretti’s study."

From the shadows of a warehouse doorway, a lone figure stumbled forward into the moonlight.

It was Marco Vance.

His suit was torn, his hands tied behind his back with heavy zip-ties, his face bruised and swollen.

Volkov froze, his hand instantly reaching inside his coat. "What is this?"

Suddenly, blinding floodlights snapped on from three surrounding shipping containers, illuminating the entire pier in a harsh, daylight-bright radiance!

Dozens of Moretti soldiers emerged from the shadows, their automatic rifles leveled directly at Volkov and his men.

I stepped out from behind the lead container, dressed in a long dark wool coat, lighting a thin cigar with a silver lighter.

"Welcome to Palermo, Victor," I said smoothly, blowing a slender ring of gray smoke into the crisp night air.

Volkov’s bodyguards raised their weapons, but before they could squeeze a trigger, my snipers on the crane towers fired four precise shots!

THWIP! THWIP! THWIP! THWIP!

Silenced rounds struck the asphalt at the Russians' feet, shattering the concrete and sending up showers of stone dust!

"Drop the guns," Volkov ordered his men through gritted teeth, realizing he was completely surrounded and hopelessly outgunned.

The Russians dropped their sidearms to the wooden pier.

I walked over, stopping three feet from Volkov, looking at him with mild disinterest.

"You thought you were clever, Victor," I said softly. "You thought you could buy my head of security, turn my own estate against me, and use my ports to move your illegal cargo across Europe."

"It was just business, Moretti," Volkov spat, his eyes gleaming with hatred. "You were too slow. Too traditional. The market moves faster than your old Sicilian honor."

"Honor is not about speed, Victor," I replied, tossing my cigar onto the damp wood and stepping on it with my leather shoe. "Honor is about loyalty. Something you will never understand."

I motioned to Matteo.

"Seize Volkov’s assets in Sicily," I ordered. "Hand his men over to the state prosecutor along with the paper trail linking them to human trafficking in Messina. And as for Signor Volkov..."