1048 When the Cold-Hearted Mafia Boss Hired a Plus-Size Governess to Tame His Orphaned Twins, He Never Expected Her to Unlock the Safe He Kept Locked After His Wife's Murder—or That Refusing to Leave Would Force Him to Choose Between His Empire and His Family

The maintenance van didn’t head toward the main highway.

As Marciano’s black SUV tore through the winding back roads of upstate New York, Beatrice tracked the digital transponder signal Harold had managed to ping from the vehicle’s hidden GPS tracker. The dot on the tablet’s screen was moving steadily eastward, cutting deep into the abandoned industrial sector near the old rail yards.

“It’s an old freight warehouse,” Beatrice said, her eyes glued to the small screen as the SUV bounced over a potholed gravel road. “Property records show it belongs to a shell corporation tied to Sullivan’s logistics firm. My uncle used to work maintenance down in these yards before they shut down.”

Marciano kept his eyes locked on the dark road ahead, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. “Why would Vince turn? He had a full pension, health care for his wife... I took care of my people.”

“People don't just sell out for money, Marciano,” Beatrice said softly, using his first name for the first time. The intimacy of it hung in the cramped air of the car, but neither of them pulled back. “They sell out when the debt is personal. Did Vince lose someone in that accident four years ago? Did his brother drive one of the trucks on Route 9W that night?”

Marciano went rigid. The car swerved slightly on the loose gravel before he corrected it with a sharp jerk of the wheel.

“Vince’s younger brother, Leo, was the driver of the independent truck impounded after Serena’s crash,” Marciano muttered, the words dragging out of him like teeth being pulled. “The police cleared him. But I... I made sure he never worked in logistics again. I blacklisted him across three states.”

Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, feeling the tragic architecture of the past collapse inward. “So Vince didn’t sell your daughters to Sullivan for a paycheck. He traded them to get back the life you took from his family.”

“If he laid a hand on Gia or Frankie—” Marciano didn’t finish the threat, but the sheer, glacial malice in his tone promised a reckoning that no court in New York could stop.

The SUV rounded a final stand of overgrown pine trees, the headlights cutting through the drizzle to illuminate a massive, corrugated-steel warehouse with broken windows and rusted loading docks.

Parked right beside the side entrance was the Bellfort Industrial maintenance van.

Marciano slammed the brakes, cutting the headlights instantly. The car plunged into darkness, save for the pale glow of the dashboard and the steady rhythmic beat of the windshield wipers.

“Stay here,” Marciano murmured, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling out a heavy, matte-black firearm with practiced, cold efficiency.

Beatrice looked at the weapon, then straight into his pale, hardened eyes. “I’m not sitting in a car while two terrified little girls are inside that building. But if you walk in there like an executioner, you’ll terrify them more than Sullivan ever could.”

Marciano stared at her, weighing the risk, the truth, and the undeniable fact that this woman understood his daughters better than he did.