The Mafia Boss Grinned When She Cursed Him in Sicilian and Then Told Her to Say It Again to His Face

Two weeks later.

The morning sun over Pier 42 was crisp, bright, and clear.

The burned-out maintenance bay had been completely demolished, replaced by a brand-new, state-of-the-art steel facility twice its original size, bearing a fresh painted sign above the main bay doors: BELLINI FLEET MANAGEMENT SYSTEMS.

In the middle of the yard, three dozen brand-new heavy yard tractors stood parked in neat, perfect lines, their chrome grills gleaming under the blue Maryland sky.

The Moretti family was gone. Following the capture of the traitor on Pier 43, federal prosecutors—armed with encrypted drive logs provided quietly by Gabriel Costa—had executed twenty-four arrest warrants across Philadelphia and South Baltimore, effectively wiping the Moretti leadership off the map for a generation.

At Bellini Auto & Transmission down the street, Leo was currently sitting in the front office under the strict, terrifying supervision of a retired marine mechanic Frankie had hired to run the front desk. Leo was forbidden from touching a deck of cards, forbidden from entering a casino, and was currently learning how to file state tax reports eight hours a day.

Frankie walked out of the new Pier 42 office trailer wearing a tailored dark navy suit jacket over a crisp white button-down shirt, dark jeans, and her trusty steel-toed leather boots. She carried a sleek black digital tablet in one hand and a hot cup of fresh espresso in the other.

"Morning, boss!" Sal called out from Bay One, standing beside a fully restored, purring container handler. He was wearing a brand-new high-visibility vest that read Chief Inspector.

"Morning, Sal," Frankie smiled, taking a sip of her coffee. "Is the ten o'clock freight feeder on schedule?"

"Docked ten minutes ago, Frankie. Clear sailing."

Frankie walked over to the edge of the pier, leaning against the polished steel guardrail, looking out over the blue waters of the harbor.

A heavy step sounded behind her. A familiar, rich scent of cedar, fine leather, and cold sea air filled the space beside her.

Gabriel stood next to her, wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal suit, his dark hands resting casually on the guardrail. He looked out over the thriving pier, then turned his dark gray eyes down to look at his wife.

Not his employee. Not his fleet manager.

Two days ago, in a small, private chapel near the water, with only Sal and a deeply humbled Leo as witnesses, Gabriel Costa had placed a heavy platinum ring onto Francesca Bellini's finger.

"You're late, Costa," Frankie said smoothly, without looking up from her tablet. "The nine-thirty container report was short two manifests."

"I was meeting with the Port Authority Chairman," Gabriel said, his low, raspy voice sending that familiar, delicious warmth straight down her spine. "He agreed to extend our master pier lease for another twenty years."

"Of course he did," Frankie said, turning her head to look at him. "You probably smiled at him."

Gabriel laughed softly, reaching out to capture her hand, his long fingers sliding between hers, feeling the cold platinum band against her skin. "I told him my wife would bring a sledgehammer to his office if he didn't sign."

Frankie raised an eyebrow. "Using my reputation to intimidate city officials?"

"It’s my greatest asset," Gabriel murmured, pulling her slightly closer until her shoulder rested against his chest. "How does it feel, Francesca? Sixty percent owner of Bellini Auto, Chief Fleet Director of Costa Vanguard, and sovereign queen of the Baltimore docks?"

Frankie looked out over the bustling harbor, where heavy cranes lifted containers with smooth, mechanical precision, where her father's name was permanently carved into the side of the newest maintenance facility, and where the man standing beside her looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

She turned to face Gabriel, reaching up with her free hand to straighten the silk tie at his throat, her dark brown eyes sparkling with fierce, unyielding fire.

"Tu sei ancora un polpo morto," she whispered softly in Sicilian, a wicked, beautiful smile curving her lips.

Gabriel’s dark gray eyes lit up with absolute delight. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers in a warm, possessive, intoxicating kiss that made the entire world disappear around them.