A MAFIA BOSS’S 3-YEAR-OLD SON CALLED ME “MOMMY” — THEN HIS SECURITY CHIEF WENT PALE

Clara stood motionless against the stainless-steel prep counter.

As she stared at the silver revolver pointed at her chest, and then at the cold, arrogant face of the woman who had stolen four years of her life, stripped her of her child, and turned her into a nameless ghost, the final barrier inside her mind completely shattered.

The fog vanished. The disjointed fragments locked into place with terrifying clarity.

She wasn't Clara Vance. She was Isabella Vance-Moretti—a woman who had trained in tactical defense alongside her husband for five years; a woman who knew every security protocol of the Moretti syndicate; a woman who had survived an ambush on an Alpine mountain road.

Isabella’s blue eyes narrowed into two slits of lethal, calculating intelligence.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She leaned down slightly, whispering into three-year-old Leo’s ear with absolute, icy composure. "Leo... close your eyes, baby. Hold onto Teddy."

Leo instantly pressed his face into her shoulder, closing his eyes tight.

Without a second’s warning, Isabella reached out with her right hand, grabbing a heavy, boiling-hot copper pot of chicken stock sitting on the industrial gas range beside her.

With explosive, violent momentum, she swung the heavy copper vessel through the air, hurling gallons of scalding liquid directly into the faces of the two tactical mercenaries standing behind Eleanor.

"AGGGHHH!" the mercenaries shrieked in agony as the boiling stock struck their faces and tactical vests, dropping their weapons as they clawed frantically at their eyes.

In that half-second of complete distraction, Eleanor’s eyes widened in horror. She tried to pull the trigger of her silver revolver.

Isabella didn't hesitate. She stepped forward with lightning speed, driving her hard leather boot directly into Eleanor’s wrist.

CRACK.

The impact snapped Eleanor’s wrist upward with sickening force. The silver revolver flew out of her grip, spinning through the air before crashing into the industrial deep fryer six feet away.

Eleanor let out a sharp, pathetic scream of pain, collapsing onto her knees on the wet tile floor, clutching her broken wrist.

Before the remaining mercenary could recover, Rico and Dante fired simultaneously.