Her Drunk Stepdad Hit Her at Dinner—Then the Mafia Boss Said, Let Go of Her Right Now

Instead of hiding in the Bellevue penthouse, I refused to stay locked away like a helpless prize.

If Grant and Viktor Petrov were planning to use me as leverage against Dominic’s empire, I wanted to be the bait that drew them into the open.

“It’s too dangerous, Nora,” Dominic had argued two hours later inside his private office at Moretti International. “Viktor Petrov’s men don't care about rules. They’re butchers.”

“They think I’m afraid,” I replied, standing across from his mahogany desk, wearing a tailored black dress and heels that Dominic’s team had provided. “Grant thinks I’m still the timid twenty-four-year-old girl who cowers when he raises his voice. If I go to my old bookstore to collect my final personal belongings, Grant won't be able to resist coming to grab me himself.”

Dominic stared at me, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped beneath his skin. He stood up, walking around his desk until he was inches from me.

He reached out, his heavy hand cupping the back of my neck, pulling me gently upward until our faces were inches apart.

“If so much as a single hair on your head is harmed today, Nora,” Dominic growled softly, his thumb pressing against my jawline, “I will burn Brighton Beach to the ground. Do you understand me?”

“I’ll be fine,” I whispered, my gaze dropping to his lips. “Because I know you’ll be right behind me.”

Dominic leaned down, pressing his lips against mine in a deep, possessive kiss that made my knees weak. It wasn't gentle—it was fierce, protective, and full of raw, uncontained passion. When he pulled back, his eyes were glowing with grey fire.

“Marco will be inside the store disguised as a clerk,” Dominic ordered, his voice thick with emotion. “My strike team will be in three unmarked vans across the street. The moment Grant steps through that door, the trap closes.”

Forty-five minutes later, I stepped out of a yellow cab outside Abernathy’s Rare Books on West 72nd Street.

The afternoon rain was falling steadily, reflecting the red brick storefronts. The streets were quiet. Inside, Mr. Abernathy was hiding in his back office, too ashamed to face me after firing me over the phone.

I walked down the quiet, dust-scented aisles of the bookstore, pretending to gather my old notebooks and personal items from the staff counter.

Ten minutes passed.

CLINK.

The bell above the front door chimed.

I looked up.

Grant stepped inside, shaking the rain from his coat. But he wasn't alone. Behind him walked three large men in heavy leather jackets, their hands tucked suspiciously inside their pockets. One of them had a scarred face and cold, lifeless blue eyes—Viktor Petrov’s chief enforcer, Nikolai.

Grant smiled—a sickly, desperate, triumphant grin that made my stomach turn.

“Hello, Nora,” Grant sneered, stepping down the main aisle. “Did you really think you could run away from me? Did you really think some suit in a high-rise was going to protect you forever?”

I stood my ground behind the counter, keeping my hands visible. “You shouldn't have come here, Grant.”

“Shut up!” Grant snapped, his voice echoing off the tall wooden bookshelves. “You ruined everything! You and your weak-minded mother! Petrov’s boys here are going to take you for a little ride down to the docks. Once Moretti realizes I have you, he’s going to open up his warehouse vaults, pay off my three hundred grand, and give me back my life!”

Nikolai, the enforcer, took a step forward, pulling a heavy suppressed pistol from his jacket. “Enough talking, old man. Grab the girl.”

“I wouldn't touch her if I were you,” a deep voice echoed from the back aisle.