“Is There any Expired Cake for My Daughter?” — The Mafia Boss Was Listening…

The morning arrived with a clear, pale blue sky washing over the estate’s manicured lawns. For the first time in fourteen months, Elena woke up in a soft down bed, wrapped in crisp Egyptian cotton sheets, to the sound of birds singing outside her window instead of the roar of city garbage trucks and shouting voices.

She walked downstairs wearing a clean ivory wool sweater and dark trousers that Maria had placed in her room. In the dining room, Sophia was already sitting at the table, happily coloring in a fresh drawing book with a new set of thirty-two colored pencils that Marco had brought back from the market.

However, the peaceful atmosphere was shattered at 10:00 AM.

The house intercom buzzed sharply in Salvatore's study. Marco’s deep voice came through the speaker, tight and alert.

"Boss. We have a situation at the main gate. It's Paul Moretti."

Elena, who was standing near the doorway holding a cup of tea, instantly dropped the porcelain saucer. It shattered against the hardwood floor, hot tea spilling across the polished oak.

Salvatore stood up from his desk instantly, his face turning into a mask of pure, stone-cold granite. "How many cars?"

"Three," Marco reported. "Eight men. Paul is demanding to speak with you personally. He says he tracked a red taxi from the lower wards yesterday afternoon."

Salvatore buttoned his suit jacket with calm, deliberate precision. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a sleek black leather holster containing a custom steel sidearm, and strapped it under his left arm.

"Elena, stay upstairs with Maria and Sophia," Salvatore ordered, his voice devoid of all warmth, replaced by the terrifying authority of a man who ruled an underworld empire.

"Salvatore, please," Elena begged, running forward and grabbing his forearm. Her fingers dug into his dark sleeve. "If he knows I'm here, he'll burn this place down! You don't know what Paul is like—he has no rules!"

Salvatore looked down at her small hand on his arm. Slowly, he placed his broad hand over hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"He has no rules," Salvatore agreed softly. "But I have no mercy for men who hunt women and children. Stay inside, Elena. This is my house."

He turned and strode out of the study, his long strides carrying him down the grand hallway toward the front entrance.

Outside on the long gravel driveway, three black luxury sedans were parked in an aggressive formation before the iron gates. Standing beside the lead vehicle was Paul Moretti—a tall, sleek man in his late fifties with slicked-back silver hair, expensive crocodile-skin boots, and eyes as dead and yellow as a reptile’s.

Behind him stood seven heavy-set men in dark coats, their hands resting noticeably inside their pockets.

The iron gates opened slowly. Salvatore walked out alone, accompanied only by Marco, who stood two paces behind his right shoulder with his hands folded casually in front of him.

"Salvatore!" Paul Moretti called out, putting on a wide, fake smile that didn't reach his yellow eyes. "It's been too long, my friend. You don't return my phone calls anymore."

"I don't answer calls from vultures, Paul," Salvatore said, stopping ten feet away. He didn't carry a weapon in his hands, but his posture radiated deadly confidence. "State your business on my road, or turn your cars around before my perimeter guards lose their patience."

Paul’s fake smile faded slightly, his jaw tightening. "I'm looking for trash that belongs to me, Salvatore. A woman named Elena Vance, and her brat. Her husband ran up a massive tab with my loan houses, and he signed over the North Harbor deeds as collateral."

"Julian Miller had no legal right to sign over those deeds," Salvatore stated flatly. "They belong to Thomas Vance's trust. And Thomas Vance's daughter is under my protection."

Paul let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Your protection? Since when does the great Salvatore Costa care about the homeless widow of a deadbeat mechanic?"

Salvatore stepped forward, closing the distance between them until he was standing six inches from Moretti’s face. The height difference was subtle, but the sudden, suffocating pressure of Salvatore’s presence made Paul’s men instinctively shift their weight.

"Thomas Vance saved my brother's life," Salvatore whispered, his voice slicing through the cold morning air like an icy razor. "That makes his daughter my blood. And if you so much as breathe her name again, Paul, I will take everything you own—your clubs, your docks, your life—and feed them to the river."

Paul stared into Salvatore's dark eyes, searching for a hint of a bluff. He found none. Only the cold, terrifying promise of absolute war.