She Cursed The Mafia Boss In Sicilian—He Grinned, "Say That Again, Looking At Me."

The rain returned by midnight, turning the industrial waterfront of the Brooklyn Navy Yard into a sea of dark, slick concrete and looming shadows.

Abandoned shipping containers stacked three stories high created a maze of rusted metal and howling wind. The dark Atlantic waters slapped violently against the wooden pilings of the pier.

An armored black SUV rolled to a stop in the center of an empty storage yard, its headlights cutting through the thick fog.

Matteo stepped out of the driver’s side, wearing a heavy black overcoat. Beside him stepped Isabella, holding the iron briefcase securely in her hand. Beneath her dark coat, she wore a discreet Kevlar vest provided by Marcus, though her heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she felt sick.

They had refused to leave Signora Rossi’s grandson to die. Matteo had devised a high-risk operational plan: he and Isabella would draw Julian’s attention at the central pier while Marcus and six elite tactical operatives breached the secondary warehouse where the boy was being held hostage.

From the shadows of a massive red shipping container, Julian Moretti stepped into the glare of the headlights.

Beside him stood four heavily armed men with tactical submachine guns. In the center of the pier, bound to a metal chair with heavy ropes, sat Signora Rossi’s sixteen-year-old grandson, a dark cloth covering his head.

“You’re punctual, Matteo,” Julian sneered, stepping closer, his voice echoing off the corrugated metal walls. “Just like your foolish father.”

Matteo stood tall, his stance relaxed, his hands casually resting inside his coat pockets.

“Release the boy, Julian,” Matteo said coldly. “You have what you wanted. The journals are in the briefcase.”

Julian gestured to one of his guards. “Bring me the case.”

Isabella took two steps forward, setting the iron briefcase onto a wooden pallet between the two parties. She stepped back beside Matteo, her eyes locked on Julian’s guards.

Julian walked over to the briefcase, unlocked the latches, and pulled out the leather-bound journals. He flipped through the yellowed pages, a cruel, triumphant smile spreading across his face.

“Don Vito’s legacy,” Julian laughed softly, pulling a sleek silver lighter from his pocket. “One snap of a flame, and the Romano family becomes nothing more than a memory in the dust.”

“You burn those pages, Julian,” Isabella spoke up, her voice clear and ringing through the cold wind, “and you destroy your own defense.”

Julian paused, holding the lighter open, his cold eyes snapping toward her. “What did you say, little maid?”

“I said you didn't read the codicil on page eighty-four,” Isabella stated, stepping forward with absolute confidence. “The original deeds are registered in the vault of the High Court in Rome. Those journals are merely the decryption keys. Without the cipher in my head, burning those pages changes nothing. The Italian federal police already received the translated dossiers three hours ago.”

Julian’s face went deathly pale. His hand holding the lighter trembled with sudden rage.