“THEY’RE MINE NOW.” — The Mafia Boss Found 9 Abandoned Kids Living With a Plus-Size Woman… Then He Made a Decision That Changed Everything

Julian Vance did not look like a man who spent time on Fenwick Street in February.

He wore a camel-hair coat with a shearling collar, Italian leather loafers with thin rubber overshoes to protect them from the salt, and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses that kept fogging up every time he exhaled into the freezing air. Behind him stood two city inspectors in navy-blue windbreakers, their hands tucked into their pockets, their expressions bored, flat, and bureaucratic.

"Marisol," Vance began as I opened the door—this time without the chain. He had that smooth, slightly nasal prep-school drawl that made every sentence sound like a concession he was granting to an inferior. "I see you haven't started packing. The notice was quite clear. As of eight o’clock this morning, this structure has been red-tagged by the municipal code enforcement division. Uninhabitable. The gas was turned off for a reason."

"The gas is off," I said, standing square in the center of the threshold, "but the house is seventy degrees, Vance. Check your thermometer."

Vance frowned, his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of hickory bacon, fresh sourdough, and hot ceramic drifting out into the freezing street. He lifted his clipboard, tapping the gold pen against the steel clip.

"Temporary heating units are a violation of municipal fire code section four-dash-eight," he recited, though his voice lacked its usual oily confidence. "And the presence of nine minor dependents in an unlicensed facility with an active structural condemned notice means the Department of Children and Families is authorized to take immediate protective custody. The transport van is around the corner."

"The transport van can turn its engine off," a voice said from behind me.

Dante stepped up beside me.

He didn't touch me, but his arm was close enough that the heavy wool of his sleeve brushed against the shoulder of my sweater. He didn't look at the two inspectors; he looked down at Julian Vance the way an engineer looks at a termite on a blueprint.

Vance’s mouth snapped shut. The color drained from his cheeks so fast it looked like someone had pulled a plug in his neck.

"Moretti," Vance whispered. His gold pen slipped from his fingers, bouncing off the wooden step and landing in the gray slush below. Neither of the inspectors moved to pick it up.

"You dropped your pen, Julian," Dante said. His voice was conversational, almost pleasant, which made the two inspectors take half a step backward toward the sidewalk. "Pick it up."

Vance hesitated, his eyes darting toward the street, toward the three black Suburbans that were still parked fifty feet down the block, their exhaust pluming quietly into the cold morning air. Slowly, awkwardly, his expensive camel-hair coat bunching around his belly, Vance bent down and retrieved the wet, salt-covered pen from the snow.

When he stood back up, his hand was trembling.

"This is an administrative action, Dante," Vance said, his voice rising half an octave. "The city—"

"The city sold this note to the First Commonwealth Trust at eleven-fifteen last night," Dante said. He pulled a folded sheet of vellum from his breast pocket and tapped it against Vance’s chest with two fingers. "The First Commonwealth Trust is a subsidiary of Bellini-Moretti Holdings. The outstanding mortgage balance of two hundred and fourteen thousand dollars was cleared by wire transfer at midnight. The municipal liens for back taxes and water services were satisfied at seven o’clock this morning through the county clerk’s private office."

Dante leaned down slightly, his scarred face inches from Vance’s gold-rimmed spectacles.

"Which means, Julian, that the only person with the legal authority to request an inspection of this property is the owner of record. And the owner of record is standing in front of you."

"The children—" Vance stammered, his eyes darting toward the dark hallway behind us where Talia was watching from the shadows with her arms crossed.

"The children are in the custody of Marisol Vega," Dante said.

"She doesn't have a state license!" Vance cried, trying to find some purchase on the legal ledge he had spent three weeks constructing. "The placement is informal! Under Massachusetts General Law chapter one-nineteen, the state has automatic jurisdiction over abandoned minors without legal guardians!"

"They aren't abandoned," Dante said.

He reached down, took my left hand in his, and lifted it between us.

My hand was rough from dishwater, the nails short, the knuckles broad. Dante’s hand was larger, darker, scarred across the back, his fingers warm and completely steady. He didn't squeeze; he held my fingers with a deliberate, public possessiveness that left no room for misinterpretation.

"As of eight o’clock this morning, Marisol Vega and I have filed for joint permanent guardianship of all nine dependents through the probate court in Suffolk County," Dante said, his voice dropping into that heavy, immutable tone that sounded like iron doors swinging shut. "Judge Callahan signed the provisional order twenty minutes ago. If you want to challenge the placement, Julian, you’ll have to do it in front of Callahan. With my attorneys."

Vance’s face went from pale to gray. "Callahan? Callahan hasn't handled probate in five years—"

"He handled it this morning," Dante said. "And if you or any of your friends from South Boston come back to this street, I won't call the building department. I’ll call Rocco."

Dante looked over Vance’s shoulder at the two city inspectors, who were already tucking their clipboards into their windbreakers and looking intensely interested in their boots.

"Gentlemen," Dante said. "The sidewalk is public property. Fenwick Street is not. Have a productive day."

He didn't wait for them to answer. He turned, pulled me back into the hallway, and shut the heavy oak door with a firm, solid thud that echoed through the warm house.

I pulled my hand back from his.

My palm was burning where his skin had touched mine.

"Callahan?" I demanded, my breath coming fast, my ribs expanding against my thick sweater. "Joint guardianship? What did you do, Dante?"

Dante turned back to me, unbuttoning his jacket once more, entirely unruffled by the scene he had just orchestrated on my front steps.

"I took away their leverage," Dante said. "Julian Vance can't use the state against you if the state’s favorite judge has already given you legal authority. And Tarasov can't touch Luis without declaring war on the entire commission."

"You put your name on their papers," I whispered. "All nine of them? Talia? Jamal? The twins?"

"I don't do things by halves, Marisol," Dante said, his gray eyes fixing on mine with that terrifying, total focus that made my knees feel strangely soft. "If I take the boy, I take the house. And if I take the house, I take the woman who built it."

"They aren't a package deal you buy at an auction," I snapped, though my eyes were stinging with something hot and treacherous that I refused to let turn into tears. "They are people, Dante. Broken people. Angry people."

"So am I," Dante said.

He reached out, his bare fingers catching a loose strand of hair that had fallen across my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with an astonishing, terrifying gentleness.