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.

The closet door creaked open, revealing a sliver of the moonlight illuminating the ruined bedroom. A large silhouette stood in the doorway. It wasn't Victor. The man raised a tactical flashlight, the blinding beam sweeping directly toward Harper. “Found the wife,” the mercenary sneered, stepping into the closet. Harper’s vision blurred with tears, but a sudden, fierce rush of adrenaline drowned out her fear. She was the Queen of the Gallow Empire. She refused to be a helpless victim in her own home. Instead of shrinking back, Harper raised the pistol with both hands, aimed directly at the flashlight, and squeezed the trigger. The deafening blast in the enclosed space was agonizing. The heavy recoil sent Harper stumbling backward into the racks of expensive suits. The mercenary let out a sharp cry of pain, dropping the flashlight as his shoulder shattered. He fell to his knees, cursing violently. Harper didn't hesitate. She lunged forward, grabbed the heavy marble base of a jewelry stand, and slammed it down onto the back of the man’s head. He collapsed onto the floor, completely unconscious. Harper stood panting in the dark, her hands shaking so violently she dropped the gun. The bedroom lights suddenly flickered and surged back to life. The backup generators had finally been manually restored. Harper stumbled out of the closet, her eyes widening in sheer horror at the state of her bedroom. The walls were riddled with bullet holes, and three heavily armed men lay dead on the white rug. Victor was kneeling by the shattered window, reloading his weapon with mechanical efficiency. He was bleeding from a deep gash on his forearm, but he looked like an apex predator who had just finished a meal. He spun around when he heard her footsteps, his dark eyes frantic. When he saw her unharmed, the murderous rage in his expression instantly melted into overwhelming relief. He crossed the room in two massive strides and pulled her into a crushing embrace. “I shot him,” Harper cried against his chest, burying her face in his ruined shirt. “I actually shot him.” Victor kissed the top of her head repeatedly, his own hands shaking as he held her. “I know, my brave girl,” Victor murmured thickly. “I know.” Arthur limped into the bedroom, clutching his bleeding thigh, his suit completely shredded. “The floor is secure, sir,” Arthur grunted, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “But Marcus wasn't with them.” Victor’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. “This was a distraction,” Victor realized, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “He didn't come here to kill me.” Victor pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket and checked the secure network logs. The screen was flashing a frantic, crimson warning. “He’s in the subterranean server room,” Victor growled. “He is stealing the offshore accounts.” He looked at Harper, his expression hardening back into the cold mafia boss. “Lock the doors. Do not let anyone inside.” “Victor, you’re bleeding,” Harper protested, grabbing his arm. “I’m finishing the ghost,” Victor promised, turning and walking into the hallway with absolute murder on his mind.