“WHO HURT YOU?” — The Mafia Boss Asked When She Arrived at His Mansion Bruised… Then He Discovered Who Had Done It

The smell of cordite and burnt sulfur filled the dining room instantly, stinging the back of Delia’s throat.

She hit the Persian rug hard, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, sending a bowl of roasted potatoes crashing to the floor in a clatter of silver and porcelain.

She wasn't hit.

Across the room, the intruder’s gun dropped from his hand with a dull thud. A dark, ragged red bloom was spreading rapidly across the front of his leather jacket, right where a 9mm hollow-point round fired from Emilio’s Sig Sauer had punched clean through his chest.

The man staggered backward two steps, his eyes rolling upward, before he collapsed facedown onto the marble tiles of the foyer with a sickening, heavy crash.

Silence rushed back into the room—a heavier, thicker silence than before, broken only by the sound of Emilio’s ragged breathing and the crackle of the dining room chandelier overhead.

Emilio didn't look at the body.

He dropped his gun onto the table, his broad shoulders heaving as he sprinted across the room toward the corner where Sabina stood frozen against the sideboard.

“Sabina,” Emilio gasped, dropping to his knees in front of her, his hands hovering over her shoulders as if afraid she might shatter if he touched her too hard. “Are you hurt? Look at me, sweetheart. Are you hurt?”

The child didn't look at the blood in the hallway. She didn't look at her father.

Her dark, wide eyes were fixed entirely on Delia, who was slowly pushing herself up from the floor, clutching her bruised shoulder with a grimace of pain.

“You...” Sabina whispered.

Her voice was tiny, fragile like crystal, but it was unmistakably there.

Emilio turned his head slowly, looking from his daughter to Delia, his face drained of every drop of color.

“Did she... did she just speak?” Emilio whispered, his voice cracking with an emotion so raw it sounded like weeping.

“Yes,” Delia breathed out, leaning against the edge of the mahogany table to steady herself. “She spoke.”

Carmela appeared in the service doorway a second later, her hands pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror as she looked at the body in the hall. But when she saw Sabina standing upright, looking directly at her father, the old housekeeper dropped to her knees and began crossing herself rapidly, muttering frantic prayers of thanks in rapid Italian.

“Carmela,” Emilio said, his voice hard as iron once more, though his hands were still shaking as he gently cupped the back of Sabina’s head. “Call Leo. Tell him to clean the foyer. And call Dr. Vasquez to check the perimeter sensors. There might be others.”

“Right away, Emilio,” Carmela whispered, scrambling back toward the kitchen.

Emilio turned back to Delia. He stood up slowly, towering over her in the dim light of the chandelier, his dark eyes scanning her from head to toe.

“Are you hit?” he demanded, his voice rough.

“No,” Delia said, wincing as she straightened her jacket. “Just... bruised in a few new places.”

Emilio reached out. For a second, she thought he was going to pull her away or yell at her for jumping into the line of fire. Instead, his large, calloused hand rested firmly on her uninjured shoulder, his fingers gripping the fabric of her blouse with a terrifying, unyielding pressure.

“You’re a fool, Miss Kavanaugh,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper. “A complete, reckless, stubborn fool.”

“You’re welcome,” Delia snapped back, her adrenaline finally giving way to anger. “Next time, I’ll let the man shoot your daughter so you can keep your pristine dining room carpet clean!”