She Poked Boston’s Most Feared Crime Boss on Her Birthday, and He Carried Her Out Before She Learned Who the Bullet Was Really For

The interior of the Conti estate was a stark contrast to the gritty, violent world Penny had spent her life navigating. High vaulted ceilings, dark walnut paneling, and massive Persian rugs that swallowed the sound of her muddy sneakers filled the grand foyer. A sweeping marble staircase curved up to the second floor, lit by a massive iron chandelier.

An elderly woman with gray hair pulled into a tight, neat bun stepped forward, holding a silver tray with a warm glass of water and a folded white towel.

“Miss Higgins,” the woman said with a warm, gentle maternal voice. “I am Mrs. Gable. Please, come into the sitting room. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“She’s seen a gunman, Mrs. Gable,” Matteo said, stepping past them into the foyer, tossing his ruined, blood-stained suit jacket onto a leather bench. He unbuttoned his collar, rolling up his French cuffs to reveal dark hair on muscular forearms and a heavy steel watch. “Bring her up to the east wing guest suite after you tend to her knee. Clean clothes, something warm to eat, and a tea with honey.”

“Right away, Mr. Conti,” Mrs. Gable replied smoothly.

Penny let herself be led into a cozy, fire-lit sitting room off the main hall. She sank onto a plush velvet sofa that felt entirely too soft for a girl who usually slept on a lumpy hand-me-down mattress. Mrs. Gable efficiently cleaned the scrape on her shin with antiseptic, wrapping it in crisp white gauze, while Penny sat in stunned silence, her mind spinning violently.

“Drink this, child,” Mrs. Gable urged, placing a steaming cup of chamomile tea into her trembling hands. “You are safe here. No one gets past the perimeter wall. Mr. Conti’s men are very thorough.”

“He’s a mobster,” Penny whispered, staring into the golden tea liquid. “He’s a murderer.”

Mrs. Gable paused, holding her medical kit. She looked at Penny with a complex, knowing expression. “Mr. Conti is a man who protects what belongs to him, Miss Higgins. In a city like Boston, that requires a certain... firmness. But he is not a monster. If he wanted you dead, you would not be sitting on my velvet sofa drinking tea.”

Before Penny could process that chilling thought, heavy footfalls sounded in the corridor. Leo Mercer—the terrifying security chief who had almost drawn his gun on her at the club—stepped into the doorway. He had removed his leather jacket, revealing a shoulder holster housing a massive black handgun.

“Boss wants you upstairs, Higgins,” Leo said, his voice flat, emotionless.

Penny swallowed the lump in her throat, put down her tea, and stood up. Her legs felt like lead, but she refused to show weakness in front of these men. She squared her shoulders, smoothed her torn skirt, and followed Leo up the grand staircase.

They walked down a long, dimly lit corridor lined with oil paintings of stormy seas and ancient battlefields, finally stopping in front of a pair of heavy mahogany double doors. Leo knocked twice, opened the door, and motioned for her to enter alone.

The room was a massive private study. Walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a large stone fireplace crackling with burning oak, and a massive mahogany desk facing a wall of bulletproof glass overlooking the misty grounds.

Matteo stood behind the desk. He had changed into a simple, charcoal-gray cashmere sweater and dark trousers. Without his tailored suit, he looked less like an untouchable don and more like a heavily built, dangerous animal momentarily at rest. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, looking out into the foggy night.

“Sit down, Penny,” he said softly without turning around.

“I prefer to stand,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

Matteo turned slowly. The amber light from the fireplace caught the sharp angles of his face and the faint red scar where the glass had cut his jaw. He studied her for a long moment, taking in her rigid posture, her flared nostrils, and the defiance blazing in her eyes.

“You have remarkable courage for a girl who serves drinks for a living,” he said, stepping around the desk and leaning against the front edge, resting his hands on the dark wood.

“I don't have courage,” she snapped. “I have a temper, a headache, and zero patience for criminals who think they can order me around.”

Matteo’s lips twitched slightly. “Honesty. Refreshing. Most people who sit in that chair are either trying to lie to me or praying I don't break their kneecaps.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to establish baseline reality,” Matteo said, his tone dropping into a serious, heavy register. “Here is the baseline reality, Penny: Arthur Vance and Salvatore Rossi want you dead. They cannot afford for you to exist, because your testimony to an independent prosecutor could destroy their entire operation.”

“Then let me go to the police!” Penny took a step forward, her hands clenched into tight fists. “I’ll ask for witness protection! I’ll move to Iowa! I’ll change my name! I don't care about Boston!”

“The police are compromised,” Matteo said flatly. “Vance is the police. He controls the federal task force. The moment you walk into a precinct to ask for protection, his men will process your intake, put you in an unmonitored holding cell, and you will suffer an unfortunate 'accidental death' before sunrise.”

Penny felt the cold air rush out of her lungs. “So... so I’m trapped.”

“You are protected,” Matteo corrected firmly. “There is a difference. Under my roof, Vance cannot touch you. My guards are loyal, my security systems are absolute, and my resources are unlimited.”

“And what do you want from me?” Penny demanded, staring him down. “Nobody like you does anything for free. What’s the price, Mr. Conti? What do I owe you for saving my life?”

Matteo walked closer to her, his long strides effortlessly closing the distance between them. He stopped just two feet away. He was tall—easily six-foot-three—and his physical presence was overwhelming, radiating a terrifying heat and raw authority.

“You owe me nothing,” he said softly, looking directly into her eyes. “But I require your cooperation. In forty-eight hours, I am hosting a high-stakes auction at the harbor estate. Vance and Rossi will both be there to conduct business under a truce banner. I am going to use that event to expose Vance and force him into a trap.”