The Mafia Boss Asked His Secretary to Translate a Letter—Then She Read the Name No One Dared Speak

As they approached the base of the staircase, Vittorio Bellandi began his descent, his cane clicking rhythmically against the marble steps like the ticking of an executioner's clock.

The crowd of high-society spectators parted backward, sensing the lethal tension radiating between the two titans. The violin quartet abruptly stopped playing, their bows hovering in the air before they scurried off the stage.

"Elena," Vittorio said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vaulted hall. He stopped three steps from the bottom, looking down at her. "You wear green well. It reminds me of the gardens in Palermo before you decided to become a common fugitive."

Elena stood her ground, her hand firmly resting on Adrien’s arm. "The gardens were a cage, Father. And you were the jailer."

Vittorio’s cold eyes shifted to Adrien. "You have your father’s insolence, Adrien. But your father understood boundaries. When the Bellandi family claimed a debt, he paid it in cash, not defiance."

"My father is dead, Vittorio," Adrien replied, his voice a low, thunderous rumble that filled the silence of the hall. "And you are standing in my city, threatening my woman, under the delusion that your name still commands obedience."

Vittorio smiled, a cold, skeletal baring of teeth. "She is not your woman. She is my heir. And blood always answers to blood."

The old man raised his left hand, snapping his fingers once.

Instantly, from the shadowed corridors and exhibition wings of the museum, twelve men in dark suits stepped forward, drawing silenced submachine guns. Screams erupted from the high-society guests as women dropped their champagne flutes and panicked elites rushed toward the main doors.

"Nobody moves!" one of Vittorio's lieutenants shouted, firing a burst into the ornate plaster ceiling. Chunks of marble rained down as the crowd stampeded toward the exits, only to find the heavy iron gates locked from the outside.

Elena stepped instinctively in front of Adrien, her eyes blazing with fury. "Let them go, Father! This is between us!"

"Of course it is, little bird," Vittorio said softly, stepping down the remaining stairs. "And you will come home now. Adrien Moretti dies tonight, and with him, the last obstacle to the Bellandi restoration."

"You made one mistake, Vittorio," Adrien said calmly, not reaching for a weapon, not moving an inch.

Vittorio raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what is that?"

"You assumed the men who locked those gates were yours."

Adrien reached into his tuxedo pocket and pressed a button on a small black transmitter.

Suddenly, the museum’s brilliant chandelier lighting cut out, plunging the grand hall into pitch-black darkness.

Pandemonium erupted. Screams of terror echoed across the marble walls. Then, the sharp, disciplined crack of suppressed gunfire began—not random, but surgical, precise, popping from the high rafters and the shadowed alcoves.

"Elena, down!" Adrien’s voice cut through the dark.

His arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her behind the heavy pedestal of an ancient Roman statue just as a hail of bullets chipped the marble inches above where they had stood.

Elena felt the cold floor beneath her hands, the heavy silk of her dress tearing slightly. In the darkness, green laser sights sliced through the air like emerald spiderwebs.

"Daniel!" Adrien barked into his earpiece.

"Balcony clear, boss! We took out their spotters! Moving on the ground floor!"

Suddenly, a heavy, rough hand clamped down on Elena’s ankle, pulling her violently backward out from behind the pedestal.

"Elena!" Adrien reached for her, but a shadow lunged at him, the glint of a combat knife flashing in the dim emergency lighting. Adrien deflected the blade with his forearm, his bone crunching against the attacker's wrist as he delivered a brutal palm-strike to the man's throat.

Elena kicked wildly with her high heel, driving the sharp point into her captor's shoulder. The man grunted in pain, releasing his grip. She scrambled backward, her heart leaping into her throat, only to find herself staring down the barrel of a polished silver revolver.

Vittorio Bellandi stood above her, his face illuminated by the flickering green exit signs.