The mafia boss let his mistress answer his wife’s call, and the ER notification that followed destroyed the life he thought he controlled

The corridor froze in stunned disbelief.

Arthur Vance. The trusted family lawyer who had managed Salvatore Bellini’s affairs for forty years. The man who had sat in Victor’s penthouse drinking vintage port, the man who had called Victor just an hour ago pretending to be horrified by Salvatore’s death.

“Arthur?” Victor stared at Elena, his mind reeling. “Elena, baby, you shouldn't be standing—”

“Arthur came to the penthouse at five o’clock,” Elena whispered, her knuckles white around the grip of the Glock. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, painful gasps. “He brought my father’s final will for me to review. He made the tea, Victor. He stood in my kitchen, smiling at me, telling me everything was going to be alright while my father was lying cold in a morgue… and he handed me the cup.”

Marco let out a ragged, hysterical laugh from against the wall.

“You’re too late, Victor!” Marco spat, seeing his leverage shift. “Arthur isn't just a lawyer! He’s been coordinating with the Commission in Chicago for six months! Salvatore was the only thing holding this city together. With him gone, Arthur sold the entire Bellini infrastructure out from under you. He’s liquidating the trusts right now!”

Victor turned back to Marco, his rage turning from fire into absolute ice.

“Where is Arthur?” Victor asked.

Marco smirked, blood running cold with spite. “He’s at the Bellini estate in Westchester. Preparing Salvatore’s body for a closed-casket burial… and waiting for the confirmation that both of you are dead. If I don't check in within twenty minutes, Arthur activates the transfer of all family assets to Chicago. You lose everything, Victor. Every dollar. Every building. Every soldier.”

Elena took a step forward, the wheels of her IV pole squeaking against the floor. “I don't care about the money, Marco.”

Marco looked at her, his smirk faltering as he saw the pure, unadulterated executioner's steel in the eyes of the woman he thought was a frail, defenseless heiress.

“Elena… wait—” Marco began.

*BANG.*

The gunshot shattered the quiet of the hospital corridor.

Marco didn't even have time to scream. The heavy nine-millimeter hollow-point caught him squarely in the chest, punching through his sternum and severing his aorta.

He slammed back against the wall, leaving a violent smear of crimson against the white paint as he slid down to the floor, gasping like a landed fish, his eyes rolling back into his head before settling into the lifeless stare of a corpse.

The gun dropped from Elena’s trembling fingers, clattering onto the linoleum.

Her knees buckled.

“Elena!” Victor lunged forward, catching her in his arms before she hit the floor.

Her skin was burning hot, her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips like the wings of a trapped sparrow. She collapsed against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, breathing heavily.

“Dante!” Victor roared, lifting her into his arms. “Get the doctor! Now!”

Dante barked orders down the hall, while the other two men dragged Marco’s body into an empty room to conceal the blood.

Dr. Sterling rushed out of the nurses' station, her eyes wide as she smelled the gunpowder hanging in the air. But one look at Victor’s face stopped any questions before they could form.

“Get her onto the bed!” the doctor commanded, guiding Victor back into Room 14.

Victor gently laid Elena down on the gurney. The monitors were reconnected, their alarms instantly wailing as her blood pressure crashed.

“Sinus tachycardia, rate one-forty!” the nurse yelled. “She’s going into acute shock!”

Dr. Sterling grabbed a syringe of beta-blockers. “Mr. Romano, you need to leave! If we don't stabilize her heart right now, the stress is going to cause a fatal rupture!”

Victor grabbed Elena’s hand. Her fingers were limp, but she managed to weakly squeeze his palm.

“Victor,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering, slipping between consciousness and darkness.

“I’m here, Elena. I’m right here.”

“Arthur…” she breathed, her voice fading fast. “He has my father’s real will. The one my father signed before he died. It leaves everything to… to the foundation. If Arthur destroys it… everything my father built… will belong to monsters.”

Victor leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll get the will, Elena. And I’ll bring you Arthur’s head.”

She looked up at him through heavy, drug-laden lids.

“I didn't kill Marco for you, Victor,” she murmured, the cold truth piercing him one last time before her eyes closed completely. “I killed him for my father. When this is over… we are finished.”

She went limp as the sedation took effect, the monitor slowly leveling out into a deep, rhythmic hum.

Victor stood there for five seconds, holding her cold hand. Then he let it go.

He turned toward the door, where Dante was waiting, his coat dark with rain and blood.