A Poor Maid Punched the Mafia Boss to Save Him — What He Did Next Terrified Everyone

The Grand Ballroom was a masterpiece of gilded mirrors and crystal, but at that exact moment, it felt like a tomb.

Victor Romano did not yell. He did not pull a weapon. The absolute, terrifying stillness of his body was infinitely worse than any display of immediate violence. He rose from his crouch beside the shattered champagne flute, his dark eyes locked onto Leon Mercer.

Leon had been his most trusted lieutenant for a decade. He was the man who managed the Romano family’s legitimate fronts, the man who knew the access codes to the offshore accounts, and the man who had just handed Victor a death sentence masked as vintage Dom Pérignon.

"Lock the doors," Victor said.

His voice did not boom over the panicked murmurs of the three hundred guests. It didn't have to. The command rippled through the security detail like an electric current. Heavy mahogany doors slammed shut. Deadbolts engaged with loud, metallic clicks.

Dmitri’s grip on Lena’s arm remained painfully tight, anchoring her to the chaos she had just ignited.

"Victor, what is the meaning of this?" Clara Whitmore asked, her voice trembling perfectly. The ice-blue silk of her gown shimmered as she stood, playing the role of the horrified fiancée to absolute perfection.

"Someone just tried to kill me, Clara," Victor replied, not looking at her. He kept his eyes on Leon. "And I want to know who gave the order."

Leon held his hands up, a mask of desperate innocence slipping onto his face. "Boss, I don't know what she's talking about. She's a crazy maid. She attacked you. The champagne was fine. I poured it myself."

"Exactly," Victor said softly. "You poured it yourself."

Victor took a slow, deliberate step toward Leon. The crowd parted, wealthy socialites pressing themselves against the silk-draped tables to avoid the blast radius of a mafia king’s wrath.

"Bring her," Victor ordered over his shoulder.

Dmitri shoved Lena forward. She stumbled, her cheap black flats sliding on the marble, but she caught her balance. Her knuckles throbbed violently where they had connected with Victor’s jaw. She had punched the devil, and now the devil was dragging her into hell.

"You," Victor said, stopping just feet away from Leon and turning his intense gaze back to Lena. "How did you know?"

Lena swallowed the dry lump of terror in her throat. She looked at the blood on his lip—her doing—and forced herself to speak.

"I was in the service corridor," she rasped, her voice shaking. "I saw him wipe a small glass vial with a napkin and drop it into the trash can before he took the tray. It smelled like... like old cherries and almonds."