“Please Don’t Trust That Woman,” The Maid’s Toddler Whispered—The Mafia Boss’s Expression Suddenly Changed

Two weeks before the wedding, the estate was overrun with planners, florists, and caterers. Heavy silver trucks lined the stone driveway, unloading crates of crystal, velvet table runners, and imported wines.

Genevieve was in her element. She walked through the grand ballroom holding an iPad, directing workers with crisp, charming authority.

“No, the ivory linen goes on the head table, not the sideboards,” she instructed a young steward, smiling warmly. “And make sure the ice sculptures for the seafood station are delivered no later than four on Saturday.”

From the second-floor balcony, Alessandro stood with his hands in his pockets, watching her. To anyone else, she was a radiant bride-to-be managing the details of her dream day. To him, every instruction she gave was a tactical placement.

The head table was positioned directly in front of the reinforced floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading to the terrace—the exact entry point Corvini’s breach team would use if the security grid was lowered.

Alessandro turned as soft footsteps approached down the hall.

Fatima was pushing a laundry cart filled with fresh linens. Her face was pale, and she was biting her lower lip so hard it had gone white.

“Fatima,” Alessandro called softly.

She stopped, looking around nervously before stepping into the shadow of the balcony archway. “Mr. Rienzi.”

“What’s wrong?”

Fatima swallowed hard, clutching the handle of her cart. “She… she was in your private study ten minutes ago, sir. You were down at the gatehouse with Mateo. She didn't know I was polishing the brass on the hallway sconces.”

Alessandro’s eyes narrowed. “Did she get inside?”

“She had a silver key,” Fatima whispered, her voice shaking. “She unlocked the drawer in your walnut desk—the bottom one. She put a small black box inside it, hooked to the wire behind your computer tower.”

A rogue access point, Alessandro realized instantly. A hardware bridge to bypass his local firewall and clone his encrypted drive from a remote server.

“Did she see you?” he asked gently.

“No, sir. But… when she came out, she bumped into Amara in the corridor.” Fatima’s eyes filled with tears. “She crouched down and touched Amara’s cheek. She told her… she said, ‘You’re a quiet little mouse, aren't you? Mice that stay in their holes don't get hurt when the house falls down.’”

Alessandro’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle pulsed beneath his jawline. The rage flared in his chest—hot, dark, and lethal—before he clamped it down under iron discipline.

“Where is Amara now?”

“In the housekeeper’s cottage by the pantry, sir. I locked the door.”

“Keep her there,” Alessandro commanded softly. “Mateo has placed two armed men inside the pantry staff room disguised as security technicians. If Genevieve so much as steps toward your cottage, they will handle it.”

Fatima pressed her hands together, nodding. “Thank you, Mr. Rienzi. God keep you.”

Alessandro watched her hurry away, then turned and walked down the grand staircase toward his study.

He pushed the oak door open. The room smelled faintly of Genevieve’s perfume—a rich, sophisticated mix of jasmine and sandalwood.

He walked behind his desk, reached under the heavy walnut frame, and looked behind the computer tower. There it was: a sleek, black box no larger than a deck of cards, its tiny blue LED light blinking silently as it attempted to mirror his private hard drive.

Alessandro didn't unplug it.

Instead, he sat down, opened a secondary partition on his system—a sandboxed network Vance had constructed three days ago—and began loading it with false data.

Security schedules that showed a seventy-percent reduction in armed guards on the estate grounds during the wedding reception. Route maps that indicated the Rienzi family capos would be unarmed inside the glass pavilion. A master code for the lakefront gate that was set to disarm at precisely nine-fifteen on Saturday night.