Her Stepsister Tore Her Dress in Public—Then the Mafia King Covered Her with His Coat

Even empires built on justice, however, occasionally attract ghosts from the dark alleys of the underworld.

One evening, late in November, Ava was working alone in her top-floor studio at the institute, putting the final touches on a sketch for the upcoming winter charity gala.

The private elevator chime pinged.

She looked up at the clock on the wall. 9:45 PM.

The heavy oak doors pushed open.

A man stepped into the room—not Niko, not Leo, not one of the institute guards.

He was tall, wearing a worn leather jacket, his face scarred by an old burn mark across his left cheek. He wasn't holding a weapon, but his hands were shoved deep into his pockets with dangerous nonchalance.

"Miss Monroe, I presume," the man said, his voice raspy like sandpaper. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Marcus Vance. Former head of security for Richard Whitmore."

Ava stood up immediately, her hand dropping instinctively toward the heavy pair of tailoring shears resting on her cutting table. "You're trespassing. Security is stationed downstairs."

Marcus Vance let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Security is currently having a very pleasant nap in the basement breakroom thanks to a mild sedative in their evening coffee. Don't worry, I'm not here to hurt you."

"Then what do you want?" Ava demanded, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"I want what Richard Whitmore was too stupid to find," Marcus said, stepping closer to the cutting table. "When the federal marshals raided the estate, they missed the private wall safe in his underground study. The safe where he kept the real secrets—the ones that didn't just involve stolen dress patterns, but the financial ledger of every corrupt judge and politician in this city."

Ava’s eyes narrowed. "I don't know anything about a wall safe."

"You might not," Marcus smiled coldly, reaching out to grab her arm. "But you're going to help me find it in the institute's archives before Moretti’s men realize—"

Bang.

The heavy oak doors didn't just open—they slammed backward against the drywall with a deafening crash.

Niko Moretti stood in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He wore a dark tactical turtleneck, his sleeves rolled up, holding a suppressed SIG Sauer pistol pointed directly at the center of Marcus Vance’s chest.

"Let go of her, Marcus," Niko said. His voice was so quiet it felt like the drop before a thunderstorm.

Marcus froze. His hand slipped off Ava’s arm instantly, and he raised his hands slowly into the air.

"Niko... boss," Marcus stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "I was just... we were just talking about business—"

"You put your hands on my future wife," Niko interrupted, closing the distance between them in two long, terrifying strides. "You broke into her building. And you thought you could walk out of here alive?"

"Wait!" Ava shouted, stepping forward and placing her hand gently on Niko’s forearm. "Niko, don't. Let the federal authorities handle him. If you kill him here, it ruins everything we've built."

Niko stared down at Marcus for three agonizing seconds, his finger hovering over the trigger.

Then, with blinding speed, Niko reversed the pistol and smashed the heavy metal butt directly into the side of Marcus’s skull.

Marcus dropped to the polished hardwood floor like a sack of wet cement, unconscious.

Niko didn't even look down at him. He turned his attention entirely to Ava, his hands coming up to cup her face, checking her skin for any sign of injury.

"Are you hurt?" Niko demanded, his voice thick with ragged panic. "Did he touch you?"

"I'm fine, Niko," Ava breathed, her hands resting against his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy beat of his heart. "I'm completely fine."

Niko pulled her against his chest, holding her so tightly she could barely breathe, burying his face in her dark curls as the adrenaline slowly receded from his veins.