She Accidentally Used a Pet Name for the Mafia Boss—What He Did Next Stunned the Office

The rain had returned with a vengeance, sweeping off the Atlantic in blinding sheets of gray water.

Pier 42 was a sprawling, desolate expanse of asphalt, shipping containers, and towering gantry cranes that groaned against the offshore gale. Under the cover of darkness, Moretti Logistics’ primary cargo vessel, the *Northern Star*, was unloading eighty high-value shipping containers under the watchful eyes of thirty armed men.

Paige sat inside the armored SUV parked near the administration shanty, wrapped in Gabriel’s heavy wool overcoat. She had refused to stay behind at the estate.

"I know the manifests," she had insisted fiercely back at the Plaza. "The blue folder I handed you on Thursday—it wasn't just shipping data. The third container on the manifest had an inverted routing code. Sylvia flagged it, but I caught the discrepancy. That container isn't carrying electronics from Rotterdam. It’s carrying ammunition, and the recipient address belongs to a dummy corporation linked to Rossi!"

Gabriel had stared at her in stunned realization. The mole in his logistics network hadn't been an accountant skimming cash—it had been a high-level port director routing weapon shipments directly to Rossi’s militia.

Now, looking through the rain-streaked window of the SUV, Paige pointed at container 88-B, which was currently being lowered onto the back of a flatbed truck.

"That's it," she said. "The blue seal. That’s the inverted code."

Gabriel picked up his radio. "Nico. Intercept the flatbed at checkpoint three. Do not let it leave the gate."

*“Copy that, boss—”*

A burst of automatic gunfire cut Nico off over the frequency.

Tracer rounds ripped through the darkness, striking the side of the flatbed. Men in dark tactical gear swarmed from the shadows between the shipping containers, opening fire on the Moretti guards.

"Ambush!" someone shouted over the radio. "Rossi’s men are inside the perimeter! They’ve breached gate two!"

"Stay in the car!" Gabriel commanded, drawing his weapon.

"Gabriel, no!" Paige grabbed his forearm. "They knew the route! The director set you up!"

Gabriel looked at her, his jaw set like iron. "Paige, the doors are locked. The glass is bulletproof. Stay down, and do not open this door for anyone except me or Nico."

He wrenched the door open, stepped out into the howling storm, and slammed it shut behind him.

Paige pressed herself flat against the floorboards of the SUV. The sounds of war erupted around her—the deafening rattle of assault rifles, the heavy boom of shotguns, the metallic ricochet of bullets striking the shipping containers.

Through the lower window, she saw Gabriel moving with lethal efficiency. He didn't seek cover like a panicked man; he moved through the rain like an apex predator, firing with cool, calculated accuracy, dropping two attackers who tried to flank the administrative trailer.

Suddenly, a loud crash shook the SUV.

The driver’s side window buckled under the impact of a sledgehammer. The reinforced glass spiderwebbed, holding, but the second strike shattered the latch.

The door was yanked open.

Salvatore Rossi stood in the rain, a heavy revolver in his fist, his face twisted in desperate madness.

"Out of the truck, little girl!" Rossi screamed over the gale.

Paige didn't hesitate. She didn't scream. Remembering the tactical files she had scanned on Gabriel’s desk, she reached into the center console, found the emergency flare gun Gabriel kept for maritime signaling, aimed it directly at Rossi’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

A blinding sphere of phosphorus erupted with a deafening roar.

The flare struck Rossi’s heavy coat, exploding in a shower of brilliant, blinding red sparks and white-hot fire. Rossi shrieked in agony, dropping the revolver and staggering backward, flailing wildly as the chemical fire consumed his jacket.

He tripped over a mooring cable, tumbled backward off the edge of the concrete pier, and plunged into the icy, churning black waters of the bay below.

Paige scrambled out of the SUV, coughing through the sulfurous smoke.

"Paige!"

Gabriel came running through the rain, his gun lowered, his shirt torn and stained with blood. He reached her in three strides, pulling her against his chest with such fierce desperation that her breath left her body.

"Are you hit? Did he shoot you?" Gabriel shouted, his hands frantically checking her face, her arms, her torso.

"I shot him," she gasped, her hands clutching his wet shirt. "With the flare. He fell in the bay."

Gabriel looked toward the edge of the pier, where only black water churned in the storm, then looked down at the trembling woman in his arms.

He let his gun fall to the asphalt with a clatter.

He framed her face with his large, wet hands, leaned down, and crushed his mouth against hers.

It was an explosive, desperate kiss—tasting of rain, copper, smoke, and sheer survival. Paige wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, melting into the overwhelming heat of his body. The world around them faded; the gunfire subsided, the rain continued to fall, but on that freezing, oil-stained pier, there was only Gabriel.

He pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against hers, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"You're a menace, Paige Winslow," he whispered, a fierce, possessive smile breaking through the grime on his face.