Mafia Boss Never Loved Anyone Until a Broke Designer Jammed Her Sneaker Into His Private Elevator There was a special kind of silence that followed Victor Gallow. It emptied crowded restaurants before he reached his table. It made armed men lower their voices. It turned confident executives into stammering children when he entered a conference room.

By Friday, the tension inside Gallow Tower was thick enough to cut with a serrated blade. Arthur and his men had transformed the building into a heavily fortified bunker. Harper tried to focus on her work, but the shadow of Marcus Vance hung over every single conversation. She was currently reviewing the quarterly budget for the creative department. Sarah, her executive assistant, walked in carrying a stack of printed invoices. “Here are the final vendor approvals for the charity gala next week, Mrs. Gallow,” Sarah smiled brightly. Harper took the files, offering a warm smile in return. “Thank you, Sarah. You can head home early today.” “Have a good weekend,” Sarah said, turning and leaving the office. Harper opened the file, running her manicured finger down the list of caterers, florists, and lighting technicians. Everything looked perfectly normal. But as she flipped to the second page, her eyes caught on a specific string of numbers. It was the routing number for a boutique floral agency in Manhattan. Harper frowned, pulling up her encrypted database on her dual monitors. Before she met Victor, she had been a struggling graphic designer. But she had also spent countless hours balancing microscopic budgets just to survive. She had an eidetic memory for numbers. She typed the routing sequence into the Gallow network’s secure ledger. The screen blinked red. It wasn't a florist at all. It was a dummy corporation registered to an offshore holding company in the Cayman Islands. Harper’s blood ran completely cold. She cross-referenced the holding company with the criminal database Victor had shown her months ago. The holding company belonged to the Vance Syndicate. Someone had embedded an assassination squad into the vendor list for the charity gala. And the invoice had been personally vetted and submitted by Sarah. Harper stared at the door, her breath catching in her throat. Sarah, the girl who ate chocolate croissants in the break room. Sarah, who had been promoted right alongside her. Harper didn't hesitate. She reached under her desk and hit the silent panic button that connected directly to Arthur’s earpiece. Within thirty seconds, the heavy oak door burst open. Arthur stood in the doorway, his hand resting casually but firmly on the grip of his holstered weapon. “Mrs. Gallow?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room for threats. “Lock down the fourteenth floor,” Harper ordered, her voice trembling but resolute. “And bring Sarah back up here.” Arthur didn't question her. He simply tapped his earpiece. “Seal the exits,” Arthur commanded the security team. Harper looked at the forged invoice on her desk. The war hadn't started on the streets. It had already infiltrated her inner circle. She picked up her phone and dialed Victor’s private number. “We have a rat in the tower,” Harper said the moment he answered.