THE BILLIONAIRE MAFIA TRIPLETS TRIED TO BREAK THEIR NEW MAID—UNTIL SHE COOKED BREAKFAST AND UNLOCKED A DEADLY TWENTY-YEAR SECRET

The battle in the grand foyer was a symphony of fury and vengeance.

Roman landed on the lower landing with terrifying grace, immediately eliminating two of Moretti’s riflemen before they could react. Declan roared with renewed savagery, breaking from his cover and slamming into a mercenary, disarming him with a brutal strike and turning the weapon against the remaining intruders. Gabriel, moving with lethal agility along the upper balconies, picked off the flanking snipers with calculated precision.

The three triplets fought like a single, devastating organism. Fifteen years of grief, rage, and preparation unleashed in a matter of minutes.

Vincent Moretti realized too late that he had walked into a slaughterhouse. His elite strike force was being dismantled with terrifying speed.

Panicked, Vincent backed toward the open terrace doors leading to the cliffside gardens. But before he could escape, he looked up and saw me standing on the upper mezzanine, clutching my mother’s journal in one hand and Roman’s pistol in the other.

“You...” Vincent hissed, his eyes widening as he saw my face in the moonlight. “You have her eyes. Clara’s eyes!”

Vincent raised his golden revolver toward me.

Before he could pull the trigger, I raised the pistol with both hands, aimed down the sight just as Roman had shown me seconds earlier, and squeezed the trigger.

The bullet struck Vincent’s right shoulder, sending his golden gun spinning out of his hand and clattering across the marble floor. Vincent shrieked in pain, stumbling back onto the rain-drenched terrace.

Declan was on him in an instant.

The massive enforcer grabbed Vincent by the collar of his expensive coat and lifted the aging mob boss clean off the ground, pinning him against the stone balustrade overlooking the crashing ocean waves fifty feet below.

“Don't kill him yet,” Roman commanded, walking out onto the terrace through the shattered glass, his suit torn, smoke rising from the barrel of his rifle.

Gabriel joined them, wiping blood from a cut above his brow, his usual smirk replaced by a cold, triumphant glare.

I walked down the ruined grand staircase, stepping over the debris, and stood beside Roman on the terrace. The cold November wind whipped my hair across my face, but I didn't feel the chill.

Vincent looked up at the four of us, blood dripping from his shattered shoulder, his arrogant demeanor completely broken.

“You think you’ve won?” Vincent wheezed, coughing up blood. “The ledger... you don't even know how to decode it! Without the key, it’s just useless gibberish! You’ll never access the accounts! You’ll never clear the Falcone name!”

I stepped forward, looking down at the man who had ordered the murder of my aunt and hunted my mother into an early grave.

“The key isn’t a cipher, Vincent,” I said, my voice echoing with absolute authority over the roar of the ocean. “The key is my blood. My mother hid the biometric encrypted hardware inside the Berkshire lockbox, programmed to unlock only with my DNA. You spent fifteen years hunting for paper, while Clara made sure the only thing that could destroy your empire was standing right in front of you.”

Vincent’s eyes widened with pure, unadulterated horror as the finality of his defeat washed over him.

“What do we do with him, Don Roman?” Declan growled, his grip tightening around Vincent’s throat until the man’s face turned purple.

Roman looked at me. For the first time, the head of the North Atlantic mafia surrendered the final verdict to someone else.

“Maeve,” Roman said softly. “He killed our family. He terrorized yours. What is your judgment?”

I looked at Vincent Moretti. For years, fear and debt had ruled my life. I had bowed my head to cruel landlords, merciless debt collectors, and the crushing weight of poverty. But looking at the man who broke my family, I felt no hatred—only a calm, unshakable resolve.

“Give him to the federal prosecutors along with the decrypted ledger,” I said clearly. “Strip him of every dollar, every property, and every shred of power he ever stole. Let him spend the rest of his pathetic life in a six-by-eight concrete cell, knowing that Clara Carter’s daughters dismantled his empire without ever becoming monsters like him.”