THE MAFIA BOSS BEGGED A BANKRUPT BAKER TO NURSE HIS DYING SON—THEN SHE FOUND TWO FORMULA CANS WITHOUT HER BLUE MARKS

Vincent Moretti, head of the ruthless Brooklyn syndicate, sat behind his mahogany desk in his private office, swirling a glass of high-end bourbon. It was 11:00 PM.

His phone buzzed on the desk. An encrypted text message from an unknown burner number.

“The baby is dead. The formula worked. Hale is broken. Come claim your share of the docks before the police investigate.”

Moretti grinned, a cruel, arrogant smirk. He had waited two years to break Dominic Hale. The elimination of Hale’s infant son would destroy the crime lord from the inside out, leaving his empire ripe for a hostile takeover.

“Get the cars ready,” Moretti barked to his top two lieutenants standing near the door. “We’re riding out to Long Island. Hale’s estate is ours for the taking.”

Within twenty minutes, a convoy of three black sedans roared out of Brooklyn, speeding eastward through the dark highway toward Dominic’s estate. Moretti rode in the middle car, feeling invincible, holding a cigar between his teeth.

As the convoy turned down the long, tree-lined private driveway of the Hale estate, Moretti noticed something strange.

The massive iron security gates stood wide open. The perimeter laser grids were completely deactivated. Not a single guard was visible at the gatehouse.

“Hold up,” Moretti’s driver muttered, slowing the car down. “Boss, something’s wrong. It’s too quiet.”

“Quiet? Hale is mourning his kid!” Moretti laughed arrogantly, opening his door. “He’s probably sitting in his study with a bottle of scotch waiting for a bullet. Drive through!”

The three sedans rolled up the circular cobblestone driveway and parked directly in front of the grand entrance of the mansion. Moretti and six of his heavy enforcers stepped out, drawing their firearms and moving toward the double oak doors.

Moretti raised his foot and kicked the front doors open.

BANG!

The doors swung wide to reveal a brightly lit grand foyer.

There was no blood. There were no signs of grief or mourning.

Instead, standing at the top of the grand marble staircase, dressed in a sharp black bespoke suit, was Dominic Hale. Beside him stood Marcus Vance, holding a submachine gun resting casually against his shoulder.

And seated in a comfortable armchair near the fireplace, holding a cup of chamomile tea, was Claire Bennett.

Moretti froze, a cold knot of dread twisting in his stomach. “Hale... what is this?”

Dominic descended the stairs slowly, his boots clicking against the marble with measured, terrifying precision.

“Welcome to my home, Vincent,” Dominic said, his voice smooth as silk, yet laced with absolute venom. “Did you enjoy my pediatrician’s text message?”

Moretti’s face drained of all color. He spun around toward the open front doors—only to find that twenty elite Cross enforcers had slipped out of the darkness behind them, sealing every exit with automatic rifles aimed squarely at his chest.

“You set me up,” Moretti hissed, raising his pistol.

Before Moretti could pull the trigger, Dominic’s pistol roared once.

CRACK!

The bullet shattered Moretti’s weapon, sending the gun spinning across the marble floor. Moretti screamed, clutching his bleeding, shattered hand.

“Drop to your knees,” Dominic commanded quietly.

Moretti’s enforcers looked around at the overwhelming tactical advantage and dropped their weapons instantly, raising their hands in surrender. Moretti fell to his knees, gasping for breath, glaring up at Dominic with pure hatred.

“You can’t kill me, Hale!” Moretti spat blood onto the floor. “The commission will tear your empire apart if you execute a family boss!”

Dominic stopped two feet away from him. He didn't fire. Instead, he smiled—a cold, terrifying smile.

“I’m not going to kill you, Vincent,” Dominic said softly. “Federal agents are pulling up to the front gate right now. Dr. Finch has already signed a full confession detailing every financial wire transfer, extortion threat, and murder plot tied to your syndicate.”