Every Woman Fled the Mafia Boss Before Dawn, but the Poor Maid Fell Asleep in His Arms and Woke the Secret That Could Destroy Him

By seven o'clock, Arthur appeared at the penthouse door with a tray of fresh linen and a sealed manila envelope. He looked at Noel sitting in the armchair with a cold, professional curiosity, but said nothing to her. He handed the envelope to Cassian, who was now sitting at his desk, looking marginally more human after three cups of black coffee.

"From the district attorney’s office in Manhattan," Arthur reported, his voice low and gravelly. "Hand-delivered by a clerk who didn't want his name on the receipt."

Cassian slit the envelope open with a silver letter opener. He pulled out three sheets of heavy white paper covered in neat, bureaucratic printing. His eyes scanned the lines rapidly, his expression hardening with every paragraph.

"They're moving up the grand jury date on the shipping terminal corruption charges," Cassian said, not looking up. "They have someone inside the Brooklyn docks talking to federal agents."

"Who?" Arthur asked.

"Marcus Vance."

Arthur’s face tightened into a hard, grim line. "Vance is one of our oldest captains. His family has been with the organization since your grandfather’s time."

"Vance's son got caught running synthetic opioids through a warehouse in Queens last month," Cassian said, tossing the papers onto the desk. "The feds offered the son five years instead of twenty if Marcus gave them our ledger books for the North River berths. Old men are weak when it comes to their blood, Arthur. They forget that empires aren't built on family love; they’re built on discipline."

"What do you want me to do?" Arthur asked. "Shall I bring Marcus in for a... conversation?"

"No," Cassian said, standing up. "Not yet. Let him think he’s safe. Let him hand over whatever fake ledgers he’s prepared for the feds. But I want a full audit of every container coming out of Pier 44 by midnight. If Marcus is talking, he’s not working alone. Find his partner."

Arthur nodded once, cast a sideways glance at Noel, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Cassian turned back to Noel, who was still sitting quietly by the fireplace.

"You heard all of that?" he asked.

"I’m sitting right here," Noel pointed out. "Unless you want to stuff my ears with cotton, I tend to hear things."

Cassian walked over to the desk, picked up his suit jacket, and slipped it on. "You're learning how my world works very quickly, Noel. Most people run screaming the moment they hear the word 'grand jury' or 'federal agent.'"

"I spent three years cleaning up after Wall Street bankers and politicians," Noel said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. "Believe me, Mr. Marchetti, white-collar criminals are much messier than mobsters. At least you guys are honest about what you are."

Cassian’s mouth twitched again—that rare, fleeting smile. "Honesty is a luxury I rarely afford myself, Miss Draper. But I appreciate the sentiment."

He tossed a set of brass keys onto the desk.

"Those are for the guest suite on the third floor. Arthur will have your bag brought up from the hall. You have an apartment in the city—tell me if you need someone to check on your brother."

Noel froze. "How did you know about Ellis?"

"I told you," Cassian said, walking toward the door. "I know everything that happens in my city. Especially about the people who work in my house."

"He doesn't need anyone checking on him," Noel said stiffly, a protective wall snapping into place around her voice. "I take care of my own."