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 sudden blast of the fire suppression foam created absolute chaos in the server room. Marcus shouted in surprise, dropping his cane as the thick white chemicals blinded him completely. His two bodyguards opened fire blindly in a panic, bullets ricocheting wildly off the steel servers. Victor didn't hesitate for a microsecond. He lunged forward through the chemical blizzard like a ghost. He grabbed the barrel of the closest guard's rifle, twisted it violently upward, and shattered the man's jaw with a devastating elbow strike. Arthur swept the second guard's legs out from under him, pinning him to the floor and knocking him unconscious with a swift punch. Victor slammed Marcus against the main server rack, pinning the older man’s arm tightly against the steel panel. With his other hand, Victor crushed Marcus’s wrist until the black detonator dropped uselessly to the floor. Victor kicked the device across the room. The fight was over in less than ten seconds. Marcus gasped for air, his elegant demeanor entirely ruined by the freezing foam and Victor’s crushing grip on his throat. “How?” Marcus choked out, his eyes wide in disbelief. “The suppression system was offline!” The secure intercom on the wall suddenly crackled with static. “Victor? Are you there?” It was Harper’s voice, trembling but fiercely triumphant. Victor’s heart stopped, then restarted with a violent, overwhelming surge of pride. “I’m here, Harper,” Victor breathed heavily into the microphone. “I remembered the blueprints for the building from the redesign project,” Harper explained through the speaker. “I knew the fire suppression system in the server room was on a separate manual analog circuit in the penthouse utility closet.” “I pulled the lever.” She paused, her voice softening. “Did I get him?” Victor looked down at the defeated king of the underworld, pinned hopelessly against the wall. A slow, terrifying smile spread across Victor’s bloody face. “You got him, my beautiful Queen,” Victor replied softly. Marcus stared at Victor, realizing the devastating truth. He hadn't been defeated by his former protégé. He had been outsmarted by a civilian graphic designer. “Kill me, Victor,” Marcus spat, blood trickling from his lip. “If you let me live, I will never stop coming for her.” Victor’s smile vanished. He drew his combat knife from his belt, pressing the cold steel against Marcus’s throat. He wanted to end it. He wanted to carve the threat out of the world forever. But he looked up at the security camera in the corner of the room. Harper was watching. He refused to let her see him act as an executioner, to stain her victory with a cold-blooded murder. Victor pulled the knife away and drove the hilt violently into Marcus’s temple. Marcus slumped to the floor, completely unconscious. “Arthur,” Victor commanded, wiping the foam from his face. “Call our contacts in the FBI.” “Hand him over with all the evidence of his offshore crimes.” Arthur raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Let him rot in a federal maximum-security cell for the rest of his pathetic life,” Victor declared. “He doesn't get to die a martyr.”