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

By Thursday night, forty-eight hours before the ceremony, the tension inside the estate had become thick enough to cut with a blade.

A rehearsal dinner for forty high-ranking guests was being held in the lakefront pavilion. Silver heat lamps hummed against the crisp autumn chill, casting a warm amber glow over tables draped in black silk and white roses.

Among the guests were six of Alessandro’s senior capos—hardened men from Detroit, Milwaukee, and Chicago who had built the Rienzi empire with iron and lead. They laughed, drank vintage barolo, and toasted the radiant bride sitting at the head of the table.

Genevieve wore a stunning emerald green silk gown that draped over her shoulders like water. She laughed at the capos' stories, clinked her glass against Alessandro’s, and played the part of the adored queen with flawless grace.

Under the table, her silk-clad knee pressed against Alessandro’s leg.

“You’re quiet tonight, my love,” she murmured, leaning close so her warm breath brushed his ear. “Is the pressure of marrying me getting to Chicago’s most feared man?”

Alessandro turned his head, looking directly into her hazel eyes. He reached up, his fingers tracing the delicate line of her collarbone, feeling the rapid, faint flutter of her pulse beneath her soft skin.

“I’m just admiring the view,” he lied smoothly. “You’ve outdone yourself, Genevieve. The layout, the security adjustments, the timing… it’s masterclass.”

A tiny flicker of surprise crossed her eyes before she masked it with a soft laugh. “I just want everything to go smoothly on Saturday. No interruptions. No business.”

“There won't be any interruptions,” Alessandro agreed, raising his glass of sparkling water. “To family. Old and new.”

“To family,” she echoed, drinking deeply from her champagne glass.

Across the pavilion, standing near the catering entrance in his dark suit, Mateo caught Alessandro’s eye and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

The trap was fully set.

An hour later, as the dinner wrapped up and guests began retiring to the estate’s guest suites, Genevieve excused herself to the garden terrace, claiming she needed fresh air.

Alessandro didn't follow her physically. He walked straight to his private monitoring room hidden behind the wine cellar.

On six high-definition screens, live night-vision feeds showed the estate’s perimeter. Mateo stood beside him, holding a tactical headset.

Screen four showed Genevieve standing near the stone balustrade overlooking the dark lake. She pulled a burner phone from a hidden seam in her silk gown, dialled a number, and brought it to her ear.

Through the directional audio pick-up Vance had planted in the garden arbor, her voice came through the monitors with terrifying clarity.

“It’s done,” Genevieve said, her tone flat, stripped of all the warmth she had displayed ten minutes earlier. “The idiot gave me total access to the gatehouse protocols. The security grid will shut down at nine-fifteen during the main toast.”

A harsh, raspy voice came through the phone receiver—Arthur Corvini’s voice.

“And the capos?”

“They’re all attending,” Genevieve reported, a cold, sneering smile visible on the thermal screen. “They’ll be trapped inside the glass pavilion like rats in a box. Tell Marcus to bring forty men. Don't leave a single Rienzi breathing. I want Alessandro alive long enough to watch his empire fall before Marcus puts a bullet in his spine.”

“Good girl,” Corvini rasped. “Your grandfather’s blood runs true in you, Genevieve. See you Saturday at nine-fifteen.”

The line went dead.

In the monitoring room, Mateo spat on the concrete floor. “Vicious bitch.”

Alessandro didn't raise his voice. He reached out and touched the screen showing Genevieve sliding the phone back into her gown.

“Make sure the tactical units from Milwaukee arrive by boat at seven-thirty on Saturday,” Alessandro ordered calmly. “Have them take position in the dark water along the eastern cove. When Marcus Vane’s strike force comes through that gate at nine-fifteen, I don't want them meeting disarmed security.”