The Mafia Boss Grinned When She Cursed Him in Sicilian and Then Told Her to Say It Again to His Face

The midnight fog rolled in thick off the Chesapeake Bay, swallowing the Baltimore skyline in a blanket of gray mist. Costa Vanguard’s Pier 4 warehouse was a sprawling monolith of corrugated steel and amber security lights. Armed patrol trucks circled the perimeter every fifteen minutes, their headlights cutting through the gloom.

Frankie parked her battered Silverado two blocks away in the shadows of an abandoned grain elevator.

"Frankie, this is suicide," Leo hissed, gripping the passenger door handle. "If Costa's guards catch us here, they won't just throw us out. They'll drop us in the harbor with concrete shoes."

"Then stay in the truck and lock the doors," Frankie snapped, shoving her door open. "I'm not losing our livelihood because you're a coward."

"Frankie—!"

She slammed the door shut and jogged toward the perimeter fence. Years of climbing over rusted car chassis and hauling heavy transmission parts had given her surprising agility. She grabbed the chain-link fence, hoisted herself up with a grunt, and scrambled over the top, dropping silently onto the gravel on the other side.

The warehouse was eerily quiet. Giant shipping containers towered like multicolored monoliths under the amber lights. Frankie kept to the shadows, using her knowledge of the industrial layout to navigate toward the main loading dock.

She knew Gabriel Costa didn't just sleep in a penthouse; men like him kept offices everywhere they operated.

As she slipped through a side service door left unlocked by a careless night watchman, the heavy scent of sea salt, diesel, and expensive cologne hit her senses.

She was inside the private administrative sector of Pier 4.

The hallways here were quieter than downtown—darker, more clandestine. Muffled voices drifted from a corner office at the end of the hall. Frankie crept forward, pressing her back against the cool cinderblock wall, and peered around the doorframe.

Inside sat Gabriel Costa, leaning over a sprawling blueprint of the Baltimore harbor expansion. Two burly men stood by the door, speaking in hushed tones.

"—the Bellini property is the last piece of the puzzle, boss," one of the guards said, his voice gravelly. "Once we have the deed, the rail expansion clears the city council unanimously."

Gabriel didn't look up from the blueprints. He traced a finger along the map where the old garage sat wedged between the warehouses.

"And the girl?" Gabriel asked, his voice low and smooth.

"She’s stubborn," the guard replied. "Should we lean on her a bit harder? Make her realize she’s out of her depth?"

Gabriel slowly raised his head. The amber desk lamp cast sharp shadows across his chiseled jaw and cold, gray eyes.

"If anyone touches a single hair on Francesca Bellini's head," Gabriel said, every word dripping with a lethal, chilling calm, "you answer to me. Do you understand?"

The guard swallowed hard. "Yes, boss. Understood."

Outside the door, Frankie’s breath caught in her throat. Her mind spun. Gabriel wanted the land, yes—he was a businessman executing a master plan. But he had explicitly forbidden his men from harming her. Why?

She didn't wait to find out. She stepped directly into the doorway, pushing the heavy wooden door open with a loud *creak*.

The two guards spun around instantly, their hands flashing to their holsters.

Gabriel didn't flinch. He slowly leaned back in his leather chair, a slow, predatory smile creeping across his lips as he looked at her standing in the doorway, chest heaving, grease-stained jacket and all.

"Well, well," Gabriel murmured, waving his guards down with a lazy flick of his hand. "If it isn't my favorite marine biologist. Tell me, Francesca... did you miss me, or did you just realize you forgot your purse?"

Frankie reached into her jacket pocket, pulled out the faded black-and-white photograph of her father and Gabriel in Palermo, and threw it across the mahogany desk. It slid across the polished wood, stopping right under Gabriel’s fingertips.