The Mafia Boss Came Home Early Expecting an Empty House, but the Maid’s Toddler Was Washing His Shirt—and the Man He Called Brother Was Already Choosing Their Graves

The battle raged through the grand rooms of the mansion, the priceless tapestries and antique furniture shredded by stray bullets.

By 3:00 a.m., the gunfire began to die down, replaced by the groans of wounded men and the steady drip of water from the shattered skylight.

Alessandro stood in the center of the foyer, his white shirt stained with soot and blood—none of it his own.

He heard a sound from the study.

He walked slowly toward the half-open door, his weapon raised.

Inside, Dom Vitucci lay slumped against the mahogany desk, a bullet wound in his leg, his hand clutching his side as blood seeped through his fingers.

Standing over him was Victor Falcone, a cruel, sharp-featured man with a silver-plated pistol pointed at Dom’s head.

"He’s useless, Alessandro," Victor said, not looking up as the Wolf entered the room. "He promised me your head on a platter, and instead, he brought me into a slaughterhouse. I think I’ll finish him myself."

"Do it," Alessandro said.

Dom looked up, his eyes filled with a desperate, pathetic fear. "Alessandro... please. We were brothers."

"Brothers don't choose graves for each other, Dom," Alessandro said coldly.

Victor laughed, a dry, metallic sound, and pulled the trigger. Dom’s body went limp against the desk.

Victor turned his weapon toward Alessandro, his eyes bright with a manic, desperate energy. "Now, where is my cousin, Alessandro? Give me Sophia and the ledger, and I’ll let you leave this city alive."

"She’s not your cousin anymore, Victor," a voice spoke from the doorway.

Sophia stood there, her face pale but determined, her hands holding Alessandro's mother’s old double-barreled shotgun. The weapon was heavy, her arms trembling under its weight, but her eyes were fixed on Victor with an absolute, unwavering hatred.

"Sophia," Victor sneered, taking a step toward her. "You think you can shoot that thing? You're a maid. You clean toilets."

"She cleans my house, Victor," Alessandro said.

In a fraction of a second, Victor swung his pistol toward Sophia.

But Alessandro was faster.

He fired twice. The first bullet struck Victor’s shoulder, spinning him around; the second tore through his chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him through the glass French doors into the rain-soaked rose garden.

The silence that followed was absolute.