Twelve Interpreters Failed the Mafia Boss, but the Cleaning Lady’s Eighth Language Exposed the Uncle Planning His Funeral

Dominic Rossi leaned forward, his dark eyes locked onto Charles Mercer’s sweating face. "Inconvenience?" Dominic repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "He calls losing six million dollars of cargo an inconvenience?"

Charles fumbled with his glasses. "Y-yes, Mr. Rossi. That is the... closest translation."

Maeve couldn't take it anymore.

If Dominic believed Charles’s lie, Anthony Rossi would be burned alive in a dockside warehouse within an hour. And once the brother was dead, Gregory Volk would launch a full-scale war across the eastern seaboard, slaughtering everyone in this room—including a thirty-one-year-old cleaning woman with fifteen dollars and seventy-five cents an hour in her bank account.

"He's lying to you," Maeve said softly.

The room fell dead silent.

Twelve armed men, Gregory Volk, and Dominic Rossi all turned to look at the woman kneeling beside the bloodstained rug, holding a dripping sponge in her raw, chapped hands.

Dominic’s jaw tightened. "What did you say?"

Maeve stood up slowly, wiping her wet hands on her faded apron. Her knees throbbed, but her voice was steady. "Your interpreter is lying, Mr. Rossi. Gregory Volk didn't say it was an inconvenience. He demanded a twenty percent increase in his cut. And if you refuse, his men are going to set fire to the warehouse on Pier 42 with your brother Anthony trapped inside."

Charles went pale as a sheet. "She's crazy! She's just a cleaning lady! She doesn't speak Russian!"

Maeve turned her gaze to Gregory Volk and spoke directly to him in crisp, flawless prison Russian, mixed with the sharp Odessa dialect he used: "Tell your men to lower their hands, Gregory, or Dominic will tear your network apart before your coffee gets cold."

Gregory’s eyes widened in sheer shock.

Dominic stood up from his leather chair, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. He didn't look at Gregory. He looked at Maeve.