THE MAFIA BOSS’S BRIDE CALLED ME “AN INCOMPETENT SLAVE” WHEN I SERVED A MISSING-EAR GINGERBREAD COOKIE AT THEIR GALA—BUT AFTER ONE BITE, MATTEO ROSSI FROZE AND DEMANDED, “WHO CRACKED THE NUTMEG?”

The thirty-four syndicate bosses had returned to their seats, but nobody touched their wine. The servers hovered near the kitchen doors, holding silver trays of untouched espresso cups.

At the head of the banquet table sat Arthur Vance—Camilla’s father. A silver-haired patriarch with cold, reptilian blue eyes, draped in an immaculate three-piece Italian wool suit, his fingers drumming an impatient tattoo against the mahogany table.

Camilla stood beside his chair, clutching a glass of sparkling water with trembling fingers. She had applied fresh powder to her face, attempting to mask the terror that had turned her skin ghostly pale.

When Matteo walked into the room, every eye snapped to him.

I remained three paces behind his left shoulder, holding the antique porcelain saucer that still carried the broken gingerbread cookie.

“Matteo, my boy!” Arthur Vance boomed, attempting to force jovial warmth into the cavernous room. “We were beginning to think you had abandoned your own engagement celebration! A minor domestic disagreement over household decorations shouldn't delay our toast to the future!”

Matteo didn't smile. He didn't take his seat at the head of the table.

He walked with slow, deliberate steps until he stood directly opposite Arthur and Camilla.

“A toast to the future, Arthur?” Matteo asked smoothly. “Or a toast to a hostile takeover?”

Arthur’s smile tightened into a razor-thin line. “We are merging two proud syndicates, Matteo. Our shipping lanes, your distribution network. It is what your father always envisioned before his passing.”

“My father envisioned partners who carried honor,” Matteo replied. “Not parasites who siphon forty million dollars through shell companies registered in the Cayman Islands while murdering my wife to cover their tracks.”

The room went dead silver-silent. A wine glass slipped from a capo’s fingers, shattering against the parquet floor.

Camilla gasped, setting her glass down so hard the crystal stem snapped in half. “Matteo! What insane paranoia is this? Have you lost your mind listening to the malicious gossip of an illiterate maid?”

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

“She fabricated this entire performance with that ridiculous cookie to sabotage our wedding because she wants to secure her position in this household!”

Matteo didn't even glance at her. He reached into his jacket, pulled out the small cassette recorder, and set it directly onto the polished mahogany table between Arthur’s silver cutlery and Camilla’s floral centerpiece.

“Recognize this voice, Arthur?” Matteo asked.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed into slits of cold ice. “An obsolete piece of magnetic plastic.”

Matteo pressed PLAY.

Isabella’s voice filled the vaulted hall, clear, steady, and terrifyingly real:

“I found the discrepancy in shipping manifests... It wasn't the Marcone family... It was Camilla’s father and her uncle... They are planning a coup to assassinate you during the winter commission meeting...”

Camilla staggered backward, her hip striking the back of an ornate dining chair. Her skin went the color of curdled milk.

Arthur Vance didn't flinch. A veteran of four decades of syndicate wars, he slowly lowered his hands to the white tablecloth, his fingers flattening out.

“Tapes can be fabricated, Matteo,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into a dangerous purr. “Voice synthesis technology is remarkably advanced these days. Anyone with a digital sampler can mimic a dead woman’s vocal cadence.”

“Isabella recorded that four years ago,” Matteo said, each word falling like an iron anvil. “Three days before her autopsy was rushed through by your brother, Dr. Alistair Vance, without an independent toxicological panel.”

A collective murmur rippled through the syndicate bosses. Two underbosses seated near the center table stood up abruptly, preparing to head for the exits, but four of Matteo’s elite enforcers stepped in front of the double doors, their hands resting deliberately on their holsters.

“Nobody leaves,” Matteo commanded without turning around.

He looked down at Camilla.

“You spent four years playing the loving aunt to my daughter,” Matteo whispered, his voice shaking with restrained fury. “You tucked her into bed while knowing your family put her mother in an early grave.”

Camilla’s lips trembled violently. “Matteo... please... I didn't want her to die! My father told me they were just going to take her journals! He promised me nobody would get hurt!”

“Shut your mouth, Camilla!” Arthur roared, slamming his fist onto the mahogany table.

The fine china rattled. The illusion of civilized high society dissolved into raw, brutal reality.