She Begged for a Husband by Morning, Never Knowing the Mafia Boss in the Shadows Had Already Chosen Her

Dante didn't look at the social workers. He didn't look at the police officers. He walked straight toward Beatrice, his presence so overwhelmingly dark that the air in the room seemed to freeze.

“Dante,” Clara whispered, grabbing his arm.

“It’s alright, angel,” he said softly, kissing her temple before turning his dead, pitch-black eyes onto Beatrice.

“You have made a grave miscalculation, Beatrice,” Dante said. He pulled a thick, leather-bound folder from his briefcase and tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a heavy thud.

“What is this?” Beatrice sneered, though her hands trembled slightly.

“That is every offshore account, every tax evasion scheme, and every embezzled charity fund you have orchestrated for the last fifteen years,” Dante said smoothly. “I own the banks you hide your money in. I own the politicians you bribe. And as of an hour ago, I own the mortgage on your precious Greenwich manor.”

Beatrice’s face drained of all color. The smugness vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror.

Dante turned to the social workers. “This woman filed a false report to weaponize your agency against my family. I expect a formal apology, and I expect you to leave my home immediately.”

The social workers, realizing they were standing in the crossfire of billionaires, hurriedly packed their clipboards and practically ran for the elevator.

Beatrice stood frozen.

“If you ever come near my wife or my son again,” Dante whispered, stepping so close Beatrice shrank back, “I won’t just take your money. I will take your freedom. I will hand this folder to the FBI, and you will die in a federal prison. Do you understand me?”

Beatrice couldn't speak. She nodded frantically, tears of humiliation ruining her makeup. She scrambled for the elevator, fleeing the penthouse like a whipped dog.