88The Mafia Boss’s Fiancée Pushed His Plus-Size Maid into the Lake—Then She Rose, and Everything Changed

The kiss tasted of gunpowder, rain, and raw, undisputed victory.

Elena did not pull away. She dropped the heavy fire extinguisher to the concrete floor with a metallic thud, wrapped her arms around Dante’s broad neck, and kissed him back with all the power, heat, and passion she had held inside her chest for four long years.

Dante pulled her full, soft body tightly against his chest, his hands gripping her waist with a fiercely possessive strength.

When they finally broke apart, panted for air, their foreheads rested against each other in the cool, dimly lit service corridor.

"Are you hurt?" Dante whispered, his dark eyes scanning her face with an intensity that bordered on madness. "Tell me you're not hurt."

"I'm fine," Elena panted, a breathless, magnificent smile breaking across her face. "The fire extinguisher took the brunt of it."

Dante looked down at the unconscious mercenary on the floor, then back at Elena. A dark, triumphant laugh escaped his chest—a rare, genuine sound that filled the subterranean corridor.

"You really are unbelievable, Elena Rossi," Dante purred, brushing a stray dark curl from her wet forehead. "My enforcers have tactical armor and automatic rifles, and you clear the service wing with a fire extinguisher."

"I told you," Elena said softly, looking up into his eyes. "I run this house. Nobody burns my house down."

By six o'clock that evening, the estate had been cleared.

The Vitali mercenary force had been entirely eliminated or captured. Sergio Vitali’s desperate final gamble had failed catastrophically. By seven PM, news arrived from Milan: the remaining three Lombardy families had officially stripped Don Sergio of his title, seizing his assets and placing him under house arrest in his Cernobbio estate.

The Vitali empire was dead.

Villa Moretti had survived. And it was stronger than ever.

At nine o'clock, Lake Como returned to its glassy, terrifying calm. The rain had ceased, and a full moon hung in the clear night sky, illuminating the limestone mansion like a silver palace.

Dante and Elena stood on the grand master balcony on the third floor.

Elena wore a soft, sweeping white silk robe that draped over her wide hips and chest like liquid moonlight. She stood beside Dante, holding a glass of rich red wine.

Dante wore a crisp black shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her back against his broad chest.

They watched the calm water together.

"Old man Vitali is being transferred to a retirement facility in Sicily tomorrow," Dante said quietly, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "Bianca has fled to South America with what little money she had left in her personal accounts."

Elena took a slow sip of her wine. "She wanted to destroy me."

"She destroyed herself," Dante corrected softly. "She looked at you and saw a servant. She saw a woman who didn't fit into her pathetic, narrow definition of beauty and worth. She thought pushing you into the deep water would drown you."

Dante leaned down, resting his chin on Elena’s shoulder, his hands resting firmly over her stomach, feeling the deep, steady rhythm of her breathing.

"She didn't know that the deep water is where you belong," Dante whispered.

Elena leaned back against his chest, feeling the absolute warmth, security, and love radiating from his body. She looked out at the vast, dark lake—the same water that had tried to swallow her six days ago.

She was no longer the invisible maid in the pale pink uniform. She was no longer the woman who apologized to mirrors. She was no longer the servant who took insults from cruel heiresses.

She was Elena Rossi.

Director of Villa Moretti.

Master of the estate.

And the queen of the man who ruled Lombardy.

Elena lifted her glass toward the dark horizon, a beautiful, powerful, unbroken smile lighting up her face in the moonlight.