“You’re Just a Servant’s Daughter!” The Fiancée Shouted—But The Mafia Boss Was Standing Right Behind Her

The attack came at two o'clock in the morning.

It did not begin with gunfire. It began with an explosion that rocked the very foundations of the Valente mansion.

BOOM!

The heavy iron security gate at the south perimeter was shattered by a reinforced truck packed with explosives. The shockwave rattled the glass in Clare’s second-floor suite, sending a shower of dust down from the high plaster ceiling.

Inside her bedroom, Rosie woke up with a sharp, terrified scream.

"Mama! Mama!"

Clare sprinted into Rosie’s room, snatching the terrified child into her arms, pressing Rosie’s face tightly against her shoulder. "Shh! Shh! I'm here, baby! I've got you!"

Outside, the night exploded into absolute madness.

TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!

Automatic rifle fire roared across the formal gardens. Heavy-caliber bullets ripped through the air, shattering the ground-floor windows of the conservatory and tearing through the manicured hedges. The shouting of men, the sharp cracks of hand grenades, and the deafening roar of counter-fire echoed through the halls of the estate like a nightmare unleashed.

Clare carried Rosie into the central bathroom of her suite—the only room with no exterior windows and heavy stone walls. She set Rosie down in the bathtub, draping two thick wool blankets over her body.

"Stay here, Rosie! Do not move, do not look out, no matter what you hear!" Clare instructed frantically, kneeling beside her daughter, her hands gripping Rosie’s small shoulders.

"Mama, where is the dragon man?" Rosie sobbed, clutching Barnaby the rabbit to her wet face. "Is he hurting?"

"He's fighting, sweetheart," Clare choked out, kissing Rosie’s forehead. "He's fighting for us. Now stay down!"

Clare closed the heavy bathroom door, leaving it cracked open just an inch so she could hear Rosie’s breathing. She grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace in the living room, her knuckles white, her heart hammering against her ribs like a sledgehammer.

Downstairs, the battle was brutal, precise, and bloody.

Dante moved through the ground-floor corridors like an shadow of death.

He didn't panic. He didn't shout. Armed with his heavy assault rifle, he advanced through the smoke-filled grand foyer, firing precise, two-round bursts that dropped the invading Philadelphia mercenaries where they stood. Beside him, Viktor and six of his capos laid down a lethal wall of fire, sweeping the entrance hall clear of intruders.

"Clear the west hallway!" Dante shouted over the deafening noise, ejecting an empty magazine and slapping a fresh one into his rifle with practiced ease. "Marcus, secure the basement service doors!"

"Don Dante!" Viktor shouted, ducking as a volley of bullets ripped through the plaster above his head. "Four men broke through the east conservatory! They're heading for the stairwells!"

Dante went completely rigid.

The east conservatory led directly to the secondary grand staircase—the staircase that led straight to the second floor of the east wing.

"Cover me!" Dante roared.

Without waiting for support, Dante broke away from his security line, sprinting through the smoke-filled corridor toward the east wing. His amber eyes burned with an unholy, terrifying fury.

In the east hallway, three heavily armed men wearing dark tactical gear and ski masks were rushing up the marble staircase, their rifles raised, searching for high-value targets.

Dante rounded the corner.

He didn't take cover. He stepped directly into the open hallway, raising his rifle, his finger pulling the trigger in a continuous, deadly rhythm.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

The lead mercenary was lifted off his feet, his chest shattered by heavy armor-piercing rounds, falling backward down the marble steps. The second man turned, trying to raise his weapon, but Dante’s bullet caught him cleanly through the throat, dropping him instantly in a pool of dark blood.

The third mercenary—a massive man with a scarred face—managed to dive behind a heavy marble pillar at the top of the landing.

"Moretti sends his regards, Valente!" the mercenary screamed, pulling a hand grenade from his vest, pulling the pin with his teeth.

Dante didn't retreat.

He dropped his empty rifle, pulled his heavy automatic pistol from his shoulder holster in one fluid motion, and sprinted straight up the marble steps toward the pillar.

The mercenary leaned out to throw the grenade.

Dante closed the distance in two second flat. He grabbed the mercenary’s wrist with his left hand, slamming the man’s arm against the stone pillar with bone-shattering force. The grenade slipped from the man’s numb fingers, bouncing uselessly down the stairs.

THUD!

Dante slammed his pistol barrel directly under the mercenary’s chin, pulling the trigger without hesitation.

BANG!

The man went limp, tumbling backward down the stairs alongside his fallen comrades.

Silence suddenly slammed back over the second-floor corridor, punctuated only by the distant, dying sounds of gunfire from the front gate as Viktor’s men finished clearing the remaining attackers from the grounds.

Dante stood at the top of the marble landing, his chest heaving, his face covered in gunpowder residue and blood. He looked down at the three dead men lying on his stairs, his eyes burning with an unyielding rage.

He turned toward the heavy oak door at the end of the hall—the door to Clare’s suite.

The lock on the door had been shattered by a single gunshot during the brief firefight.