“Please Don’t Trust That Woman,” the Maid’s Toddler Whispered—The Mafia Boss Slowly Looked at His Fiancée

Genevieve was brought to the estate's soundproof subterranean holding room—a place usually reserved for traitors and rival enforcers.

She was not bound to a chair, nor was she beaten. She sat at a steel table in her silk robe, shivering under the glare of a single overhead LED light while Valentin stood guard at the door.

When Alessandro entered forty minutes later, he threw a thick manila folder onto the table in front of her.

“Open it,” he commanded softly.

With trembling hands, Genevieve opened the file.

Inside were bank records from offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands, wire transfers dating back two years, satellite cell phone transcripts, and high-resolution surveillance photographs of her meeting with Dominic Moretti in a secluded diner outside Detroit eight months ago.

“Your real name is Genevieve Vance,” Alessandro said quietly, leaning against the steel wall. “Daughter of Arthur Vance, a disgraced banker who owed fourteen million dollars to the Moretti family. When your father committed suicide three years ago, Dominic Moretti bought your debt.”

Genevieve stared at the photographs, tears streaking her ruined mascara. The arrogant, icy operative was gone; in her place was a terrified woman whose mask had been stripped away to the bone.

“He... he told me he would kill my younger brother if I didn't do it,” she whimpered, looking up at Alessandro with desperate, pleading eyes. “He promised me that if I seduced you, gained your trust, and helped him secure the Rienzi financial trust, he would erase the debt and set my family free!”

Alessandro’s eyes remained stone. “And the part where you whispered to your handler that you were going to take the entire empire for yourself? Was that for your brother, too?”

Genevieve choked on her breath, unable to answer.

“You didn't just obey Moretti,” Alessandro continued, his voice chillingly precise. “You enjoyed it. You loved the luxury, the diamonds, the power of pulling the strings of the most powerful syndicate in the region. You were going to poison my wine on our wedding night, weren't you?”

Genevieve closed her eyes, a heavy, silent confession washing over her pale face.

“Where is Dominic tonight?” Alessandro asked.

“He... he sent twenty men to Dock 42,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They were supposed to ambush your gold shipment.”

Alessandro pulled his phone from his pocket, pressed the speaker button, and laid it on the table.

The voice of Marco’s senior captain, Antonio, came through the speaker, crisp and cold:

“Boss. The operation at Dock 42 is complete. Moretti’s strike team entered the warehouse ten minutes ago. We surrounded them, disarmed them, and captured his top lieutenant, Sal Moretti. Not a single shot was fired on our side. What are your orders for the prisoners?”

“Hold them in the warehouse basement,” Alessandro ordered calmly. “Ensure Sal Moretti remains alive. He will be our primary guest at tomorrow's gathering.”

“Understood, Boss.”

Alessandro hung up the phone and looked down at Genevieve.

“You thought you were playing a game of chess with a blind king,” Alessandro murmured. “You forgot that the king owns the board.”

“What... what are you going to do to me?” Genevieve sobbed, shrinking back into her chair. “Are you going to kill me?”

Alessandro looked at her with pure, unadulterated contempt.

“Death is too easy, Genevieve,” Alessandro said softly. “You wanted a grand wedding. You wanted the flowers, the high society, the glory of becoming a Rienzi.”

He leaned over the table, his eyes burning with a terrifying, dark brilliance.

“The wedding is still happening tomorrow.”

Genevieve blinked, utter confusion replacing her terror. “W-What?”

“Every major family from Chicago, Detroit, and New York is already on their way to this estate,” Alessandro explained quietly. “Dominic Moretti himself is arriving on his yacht at noon tomorrow, believing his strike team succeeded and that you are about to hand him the keys to my empire.”

Alessandro stood up, buttoning his coat.

“You are going to put on your white dress, Genevieve,” he commanded. “You are going to walk down that aisle, you are going to smile for the cameras, and you are going to play your part perfectly. Because if you miss a single line, or if you give Moretti a single warning glance...”