“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

Everything happened in the space of three heartbeats, but my brain registered each one like a photograph dropped into ice water.

Sophie didn't scream. She froze, her book clutched to her chest, her eyes wide and blank with terror.

Silvio moved before the second piece of glass hit the rug.

He didn't look for the thrower; he lunged across the rug, his massive body shielding Matteo and Luis, rolling them both behind the heavy oak sofa with a single, sweeping motion of his arms.

"Down!" Silvio roared.

I dropped the laundry basket and ran toward Sophie, my socks slipping on the hardwood, my hands outstretched.

I never reached her.

Dante came out of the basement doorway like a round fired from a heavy-caliber barrel. He didn't take the steps one at a time; he hit the bottom landing, took three strides across the hall, and kicked the burning bottle before the flame could reach the neck.

His heavy boot caught the glass cleanly, sending it flying back through the shattered window into the freezing front yard, where it exploded against the stone retaining wall in a violent sheet of yellow fire and black kerosene smoke.

Then Dante was across the room.

He didn't grab Sophie by the arm; he scooped her up—book and all—tucking her into his ribs with his left arm while his right hand came out from beneath his charcoal jacket holding a black semi-automatic pistol that looked enormous in the small, crowded living room.

"Rocco!" Dante’s voice didn't crack. It cracked like a whip. "Perimeter! Two men on the alley, three on the street. Nobody leaves the block alive unless I see their faces first!"

From outside, the sharp, rhythmic *pop-pop-pop* of small-arms fire echoed down Fenwick Street, followed by the screech of tires on cold salt and the heavy, diesel rumble of a truck accelerating hard toward the avenue.

Dante didn't look out the window. He backed into the hallway, his body shielding Sophie, his eyes scanning the ceiling, the floor, the corners of the room.

"Marisol," he barked.

"I’m here," I said, my voice shaking now, my hands gripping Talia’s arm so hard the girl winced. Talia was standing beside me, her pocketknife open in her hand, her eyes wild, her teeth bared like a cornered wolf.

"Basement," Dante ordered. "Now. Silvio, take the twins. Rocco has the street."

"No," I said.

Dante’s gray eyes swung toward me, deadly and cold. "Marisol, this isn't an argument."

"I am not hiding in the cellar like an animal," I said, my lungs heaving, my bare feet cold against the draft coming through the shattered bay. "They threw fire into my living room, Dante! Into a room with my children!"

Dante looked at me for one second. The fury in his face wasn't directed at me; it was an ancient, black tide that seemed to rise from the very soles of his feet until the air around him felt thin, ionized, like the space right before a lightning strike.

He lowered the pistol, clicked the safety with his thumb, and handed Sophie gently to me.

Sophie buried her face in the crook of my neck, her small hands clutching the wool of my sweater so tight I could feel her nails through the knit.

"Silvio," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on my neck stand straight up. "Secure the perimeter. Board the window. Call the precinct captain and tell him if a single patrol car turns onto Fenwick before I tell them to, I will release the ledger from the ninety-six election."

"Yes, boss," Silvio said, already moving toward the door, his own weapon drawn and low at his side.

Dante turned back to me. He reached out, his bare hand wrapping around the back of my neck, his fingers digging into my hair with a fierce, trembling pressure that pulled my forehead against his chest.

His heart was hammering. Not with fear. With the cold, rhythmic violence of a predator that had just seen its territory violated.

"They aren't going to touch them, Marisol," Dante whispered against my hair, his breath hot against my scalp. "I swear to you on the bones of my mother. They will not touch a single hair on any of their heads."

"Who was it?" I whispered into his shirt, smelling the cordite and the burnt kerosene. "Vance?"

"Tarasov," Dante said. "Julian Vance doesn't have the stomach for fire. The Russians are getting desperate. They know if Callahan signs the final decree on Friday, Luis is legally untouchable under family law, and the property becomes sovereign territory."

He pulled back, his hands resting on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the meat of my collarbone.