Maid’s Toddler Touched the Mafia Boss’s Leg Brace—Then He Felt the Strap Was Wrong

Marcus Vance swallowed hard, looking frantic between Dominic and the four armed guards holding shotguns aimed directly at his chest.

"Listen, man!" Marcus shouted, trying to maintain a posture of toughness. "This is a domestic matter! That's my wife! That's my daughter! I have a legal right to see my family!"

Dominic didn't look at the crowbar in Marcus's hand. He didn't look at the threat.

"Clare divorced you three years ago in the state of Ohio," Dominic stated calmly. "She has full legal custody. You breached a private residence equipped with biometric security and armed guards. In this state, that makes you an home intruder."

Marcus lunged forward, swinging the crowbar toward Dominic's head in a desperate, wild burst of rage. "I'll kill you, you crippled bastard!"

Dominic didn't even step back.

Before the crowbar could complete its arc, Vincent Hale stepped out from the shadows of a side door. With lightning speed, Vincent caught Marcus's wrist, twisted it backward until a sickening SNAP echoed through the hall, and disarmed him in a single fluid movement.

Marcus screamed in agony, falling to his knees on the carpet, clutching his shattered wrist.

The crowbar clattered harmlessly against the floorboards.

Dominic slowly crouched down, bringing his face inches from Marcus's pale, sweat-streaked forehead.

"You called me a cripple," Dominic whispered, his dark eyes burning with an intense, terrifying clarity. "Three weeks ago, I might have let that bother me. But tonight... I can walk just fine."

Dominic reached out, taking Marcus by his jacket collar, pulling him up until the man was dangling on his knees.

"If you ever come within fifty miles of Chicago again," Dominic said, his voice dropping into a register that made even the guards hold their breath, "if you ever say Clare's name, or look in Ellie's direction, I will not call the police. I will personally ensure that you are buried beneath the concrete foundations of the new port terminals on Pier Forty."

Dominic let him go. Marcus collapsed back onto the carpet, sobbing in pain, his spirit completely broken.

"Vincent," Dominic commanded, standing back up and smoothing his jacket. "Take him to the state line. Hand him over to the Indiana State Police alongside the breaking-and-entering report. Make sure his parole officer receives a complete copy of his entry footage."

"Understood, Boss," Vincent said, grabbing Marcus by the back of his shirt and dragging him down the hallway like a sack of trash.

The four guards followed, leaving the upper corridor silent once again.

Dominic turned toward the open doorway of the East Wing suite.

Clare was still standing against the wall, clutching Ellie tightly against her chest. She was shaking uncontrollably, her face buried in her daughter's hair, silent sobs wracking her frame.

Dominic walked into the suite, stopping two feet away from her.

He didn't touch her. He simply stood there, an immovable wall of protection between her and the world that had hurt her for so long.

"He's gone, Clare," Dominic said softly. "He will never come back."

Clare looked up, her gray eyes red and wet with tears. She looked at Dominic—at his steady frame, his calm hands, his unyielding presence—and for the first time in four years, the crushing weight of fear in her chest completely dissolved.

She let out a long, shuddering breath, sinking slightly against the wall.

"Thank you," she sobbed. "Thank you... Mr. Vale..."

Ellie peeked out from under the yellow quilt, looking at Dominic with wide, sleepy eyes. She held up her wooden latch toy.

"Did you catch the bad lock, Mr. Dominic?" Ellie asked innocently.