The Mafia Boss Came Home Early—Then His Maid Grabbed His Arm and Whispered, “Don’t Make a Sound”

"Julian!" Lorenzo’s voice boomed through the empty, blood-soaked mansion. It echoed up the grand staircase, wrapping around the high, vaulted ceilings. "You have nowhere left to run, boy!"

Silence hung heavy from the second floor.

Then, a trembling voice called back. "You're a dinosaur, Uncle! Your time is over! The families in New York backed my play! Even if you kill me tonight, you're a dead man walking!"

Lorenzo ascended the stairs slowly, the shotgun resting against his shoulder. Sofia covered his blind spots, her pistol raised, her eyes scanning the dark landing.

"New York doesn't care about a dead nephew," Lorenzo called out, reaching the top of the stairs. "They care about stability. When they find out you couldn't even take an old man in his own house, they'll pretend they never knew your name."

Julian suddenly stepped out from behind the hallway corner, raising his submachine gun. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The weapon clicked emptily.

In his panic upstairs, he had emptied his magazine shooting at shadows and false walls, completely losing track of his ammo count.

Julian stared at his useless gun in horror, then dropped it, falling to his knees. The arrogance completely drained from his youthful face, replaced by the terrified little boy Lorenzo had taken in twenty years ago.

"Uncle Lorenzo," Julian wept, holding his hands up. "Please. Please, it wasn't my idea! Isabella... it was Isabella! She whispered in my ear for months. She told me you were going to hand the empire over to the Chicago syndicate. She said we had to protect the family!"

Lorenzo stood over his nephew, looking down at the pathetic, sniveling mess.

"You believed the lies of a bored, greedy wife over the man who fed you, clothed you, and taught you how to be a man?" Lorenzo asked softly.

"I was weak!" Julian cried, grabbing the hem of Lorenzo’s pants. "I'm sorry! Let me fix this. I'll kill her for you. Just let me live!"

Lorenzo stared down at him. For a fraction of a second, he saw the ten-year-old boy who used to play in the gardens. Then, he looked at the blood on the walls of his home.