The mafia boss let his wife scream at the waitress—until the waitress calmly switched to French and revealed who was embezzling his money.

The guest suite on the second floor of the Westchester estate was large, furnished in dark mahogany, white linen, and heavy velvet curtains. A stone fireplace burned quietly in the corner, filling the room with the warm, rich scent of oak wood.

Elena stood by the tall window overlooking the dark gardens below.

In her hand, she held a glass of twenty-year-old scotch that Dominic had poured for her himself before leaving her to rest. She hadn't taken a sip. She simply watched the reflections of the security spotlights sweeping across the pine trees in the fog.

Six years.

Six long years of living in cheap rentals, working eighteen-hour days, learning the intricate, dark mechanics of international wire transfers, money laundering, and corporate fraud. She had given up her youth, her comfort, and her safety to reach this exact moment.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Elena said, turning around.

The heavy oak door pushed open, and Dominic stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick, scarred wrists. He carried a heavy leather binder under his arm.

“You’re not sleeping,” Dominic observed, setting the binder on the round wooden table in the center of the room.

“Sleep is a habit for people who don't have work to finish, Mr. Salvatore,” Elena replied, walking over to the table.

“Call me Dominic,” he said softly, sitting down in one of the leather armchairs. “We’re beyond formal titles now, Elena. Sit down.”

Elena sat across from him.

Dominic opened the leather binder. Inside were dozens of printed financial statements, corporate registry deeds, and bank transaction logs stamped with the official seal of the Salvatore enterprise.

“This is my primary shipping ledger for the last three years,” Dominic explained, pointing to the columns of numbers. “When you spoke at the restaurant, you mentioned three transfers. But my internal audit team looked at the Newark port accounts fifteen minutes ago. There are seven additional discrepancies dating back eighteen months.”

Elena pulled the ledger toward herself, her eyes moving rapidly across the rows of data. Her mind, trained through years of forensic auditing, processed the numbers instantly.

“These seven transfers weren't done by Isabella,” Elena said after two minutes, her finger stopping at a series of transactions routed through a small regional bank in Jersey City.

Dominic’s eyes sharpened. “Explain.”

“Isabella’s transfers were crude,” Elena pointed out, showing him the transaction codes. “She used secondary shell companies registered under her maiden name because she’s arrogant and thought you’d never look. But these seven transfers... they’re clean. They’re structured in small, consistent increments—ninety-five thousand dollars every three weeks, just below the federal wire flag threshold.”

Dominic leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “Who structured them?”

“Someone inside your primary logistics team, Dominic,” Elena said, looking up into his eyes. “Someone who has direct administrative override access to your primary shipping software. Isabella wasn't working alone. She was the distraction. While you were watching her spend money on dresses and galas, someone else was systematically draining your primary operating capital.”

Dominic’s jaw set into an iron line.

“Vincent,” Dominic muttered softly to himself.

Elena shook her head immediately. “No. Not Vincent. Vincent is an enforcer—he doesn't have the technical knowledge to execute an algorithmic override on an encrypted banking system. This was done by a financial professional. Someone who sits in your primary corporate office in Manhattan.”

Dominic closed his eyes for three long seconds, taking a deep, controlled breath.

When he opened them, the cold, lethal killer behind his calm exterior was fully exposed.

“Paulie,” Dominic said quietly. “Paulie Rossi. My chief financial officer. He’s been with my family for twenty-two years.”

“Then Paulie Rossi is the one who opened the door for Anthony Moretti,” Elena concluded cleanly.

Dominic stood up slowly from the leather chair. He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flickering orange flames as the wood popped and hissed.

“Six years ago, I thought I was buying peace by marrying Isabella,” Dominic said, his voice quiet, almost reflective. “I thought combining her alleged European connections with my shipping routes would solidify my family’s position in New York for thirty years. Instead, I brought two vipers into my home.”

He turned around, looking at Elena with an intensity that made the air in the room feel dense.

“Tomorrow night at midnight, I am meeting Anthony Moretti at Pier 42 in Brooklyn,” Dominic said. “He thinks he’s coming to buy out my shipping codes from Isabella. Instead, he’s walking into a trap.”

Dominic walked back to the table, leaning down until his hands rested on the wood opposite Elena.

“I want you there, Elena,” Dominic said. “I want the woman who uncovered the truth to sit beside me when I tear their empire down.”