The Plus-Size Chef Tore the Mafia Boss’s Plate From His Hands, and What She Smelled in the Sauce Exposed the Traitor Sitting Closest to Him

Julian Calder’s eyes bulged with raw, psychotic panic. The veneer of aristocratic control shattered completely, revealing the rabid dog beneath.

“Kill them!” Julian shrieked at his Corsican mercenaries. “Kill them both! Now!”

The Corsicans raised their automatic rifles, but before the first barrel could level with Vincent’s chest, Lena moved with terrifying, practiced precision.

From beneath the warming cart, Lena grabbed a pressurized brass cylinder—an industrial kitchen culinary blowtorch attached to an oversized canister of pure butane. With a single flick of her thumb, she engaged the electronic ignition and slammed the regulator wide open.

A roaring, ten-foot jet of blue-and-orange flame exploded across the gap between the carts, sweeping directly into the faces of the lead Corsican gunmen.

The mercenaries screamed, dropping their weapons as the searing wave of heat scorched their clothes and blinded their night-adjusted vision.

At the same instant, Vincent’s Kimber .45 roared.

Three thunderous shots echoed through the warehouse like cannon fire. Two Corsicans dropped instantly, their weapons clattering against the concrete.

Dante and the kitchen crew opened fire from behind the rolling carts, their suppressed submachine guns stitching a lethal line of fire across the timber scaffolding. The surviving Corsicans scattered, diving behind rusted grain hoppers, returning fire with frantic, uncoordinated bursts.

Bullets ricocheted off the stainless-steel carts with deafening clangs, throwing showers of sparks across the dark concrete.

Vincent grabbed Lena, his massive body shielding her entirely from the hail of gunfire as he pulled her behind a concrete pillar. His eyes swept over her face with desperate intensity. “Lena! Are you hit?”

“I’m fine!” Lena yelled back over the deafening gunfire, her heart pounding with ferocious adrenaline. She reached down into the deep folds of her crimson velvet gown and pulled out a heavy eight-inch Japanese carbon-steel cleaver she had hidden in a custom thigh holster. “Don't you dare worry about me, Vincent! Watch your flank!”

A Corsican gunman charged around the pillar, his submachine gun raised toward Vincent’s back.

Lena didn't hesitate. With all the rotational power of her hips and shoulders, she whipped the heavy cleaver through the air with terrifying speed.

The flat of the blade caught the gunman squarely across the bridge of his nose with a sickening crunch of shattered cartilage. The man dropped to his knees, howling in agony, and Vincent ended him with a single, point-blank round to the chest without breaking eye contact with his wife.

Vincent’s dark eyes flared with raw, primal desire. “I love you, Mrs. Calder.”

“Later, Mr. Calder! Julian is running for the docks!” Lena pointed toward the rear loading bay.

Through the haze of gunsmoke and dust, Julian was scrambling toward the water’s edge, clutching a heavy leather briefcase, running toward an idling black speedboat moored against the concrete bulkhead.

Vincent stepped out from behind the pillar, his weapon raised, but the chamber locked back empty. He dropped the magazine, reaching for a fresh clip.

“He’s getting to the boat!” Dante shouted, pinned down by the last two Corsican riflemen behind the grain bins.

Lena didn't wait.

She kicked off her high heels, hitching the skirts of her crimson gown, and bolted through the smoke-filled warehouse toward the rear doors. Her bare feet gripped the cold concrete with absolute authority.

Julian reached the edge of the dock, frantically throwing his briefcase into the boat, reaching down to unfasten the mooring line.

“Julian!”

Julian turned, his face bruised and wild, his pistol clearing his waistband.

He never got the shot off.

Lena slammed into him with the full, devastating force of her momentum. All two hundred pounds of solid, unyielding power collided with his chest like a freight train.

The impact knocked the breath completely from Julian’s lungs with a loud gasp. His pistol flew out of his hand, splashing into the murky waters of the river below. Julian crashed onto his back on the wet wooden dock, gasping for air, clutching his cracked ribs.

Before he could roll away, Lena’s heavy bare heel came down hard on his sternum, pinning him to the timber.

She reached down, grabbed him by the lapels of his midnight-blue suit, and slammed his head against the wood, her hazel eyes blazing with an unholy, imperial fury.

“You threatened my kitchen,” Lena hissed into his face, her voice vibrating with terrifying power. “You threatened to cut my palate out. You threatened my husband.”

Julian coughed blood, his eyes wide with utter terror as he looked up at the woman holding him down. For the first time in his sociopathic life, Julian Calder realized he was looking at his executioner.

Vincent’s heavy boots echoed across the wooden dock.

He walked up slowly, his fresh magazine clicked into place, Dante and the surviving crew securing the warehouse behind him. The syndicate dons stood in the open doorway of the terminal, watching in absolute, reverent silence.

Vincent looked down at his brother, then at Lena, who held the fallen prince pinned beneath her foot like a captured wolf.

Vincent raised his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.

“Vincent,” Lena said softly, not looking away from Julian’s terrified face.

Vincent paused. “He doesn't deserve a trial, Lena.”

“I know,” Lena said, her voice dropping into a cold, clinical calm. “Death is too fast for him. He wants our empire? Let him watch us build it from the deepest hole the federal supermax can find.”

Lena looked up at Vincent, her eyes shining with quiet, magnificent strength. “Let the Five Families see that we don't just kill our enemies, Vincent. We destroy their legacy. We erase them.”

Vincent looked at his wife. The murderous rage in his veins transformed into something infinitely more dangerous: absolute, unshakeable sovereignty.

He lowered the gun.

“Dante,” Vincent commanded without looking away from Lena. “Hand Julian to the federal marshals with the Vane evidence. Let him rot in ADX Florence for the rest of his miserable life.”

Vincent extended his hand to Lena. She released Julian, taking Vincent’s hand as he pulled her effortlessly to her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist, lifting her against him as the cold river wind whipped her curls and her crimson gown.