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 subterranean levels of Gallow Tower were a labyrinth of concrete corridors and massive server banks. Victor moved silently down the stairwell, his suppressed pistol raised. Arthur insisted on covering his flank despite the bullet wound in his leg. “Marcus knows the override codes for the vault,” Arthur whispered as they approached the heavy steel blast doors. “If he transfers the funds, he has enough capital to fund a war for ten years.” Victor didn't reply. He raised his foot and kicked the electronic keypad on the wall, shattering the plastic casing. He ripped the wires out and crossed them, forcing the blast doors to hiss open. Inside, the server room was bathed in eerie blue light from the massive computer towers. At the far end of the room stood Marcus Vance. He was an older man with silver hair, leaning elegantly on a silver-tipped cane. Two massive bodyguards flanked him, aiming automatic rifles directly at the doorway. “Victor, my boy,” Marcus smiled, a chilling, paternal affection in his voice. “You’ve let this place become awfully sloppy.” Victor stepped into the room, Arthur right beside him. “The money isn't yours anymore, Marcus,” Victor stated calmly, keeping his weapon perfectly leveled. “You lost your crown the day you went to prison.” Marcus chuckled, tapping a key on the main terminal behind him. “I didn't come for the crown, Victor.” “I came to teach you a lesson about weakness.” Marcus gestured toward the security monitors mounted above the servers. Victor’s blood ran completely cold. The screens displayed the live feed from the penthouse. Harper was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying softly into her hands. “I left a small present under your marital bed,” Marcus smiled cruelly. “A military-grade explosive.” Arthur tensed violently beside Victor. “The timer is set for exactly three minutes,” Marcus continued, checking his gold pocket watch. “I have the remote detonator right here in my pocket.” He pulled out a small black device, keeping his thumb resting dangerously close to the red button. “Drop the weapons, Victor.” “Or watch your beautiful little designer burn to ashes.” Victor’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal. He had built an empire of violence, but he had never felt true fear until this exact moment. If he shot Marcus, the old man’s thumb would instinctively depress the trigger as he died. Victor slowly lowered his pistol, placing it gently on the concrete floor. Arthur reluctantly followed suit. “Good boy,” Marcus mocked, leaning heavily on his cane. “Now, sign over the offshore access codes.” “I will take my money, and you can run back upstairs to play house.” Victor walked slowly toward the terminal, his mind racing through a million desperate calculations. He typed his administrative password into the console, intentionally mistyping the final character to buy a few agonizing seconds. He just needed a distraction. Just a fraction of a second to cross the gap and tear Marcus’s throat out. Suddenly, the massive server towers around them began to whine violently. The blue lights shifted to a blinding, flashing red. The emergency fire suppression system roared to life, violently blasting thick, freezing white foam from the ceiling vents directly onto Marcus and his guards.