My Mafia Boss Let His Family Accuse Me of Stealing—So I Left His Ring on the Table and Walked Away

"You brought them here," I said, the accusation spilling out of me cold and venomous.

"No," Dante replied, spinning around toward the open terrace, his coat flaring open to reveal the matte-black Glock 19 tucked in a custom leather holster against his ribs. "Silvio didn't follow me. He followed the money."

"What money?"

"The Long Island estate transfer," Dante said, scanning the tree line below the terrace. "I had to file the deed through the international registry in Milan to put it in your name. His lawyers must have flagged the notary stamp. He knew I’d come here."

"Both of you stop bickering," Marco snapped, racking the slide of his Beretta. "We have six minutes before they hit the lower docks and take the funicular or the stone stairs up the cliff. Elena, get inside the storm cellar."

"I'm not hiding in a basement like a frightened maid, Marco," I said sharply.

I turned on my heel, marched across the stone terrace, and walked into the villa's sunlit study. On the wall hung a heavy Renaissance-style oil painting of the Bay of Naples. I pushed the frame aside, punched a four-digit code into the recessed wall safe, and pulled out the short-barreled Benelli shotgun I had purchased my second week in Italy.

When I stepped back out onto the terrace, pumping a shell into the chamber with a crisp, metallic clack, Dante was staring at me. For a second, his expression was utterly unreadable—a mixture of sheer horror and primal awe.

"Where did you learn to handle a twelve-gauge?" he asked, his voice strained.

"You're not the only one who had a father in this business, Dante," I said coldly. "My father was just smart enough to stay out of the newspapers. Marco, how many men?"

"Two boats. Three, maybe four per boat," Marco answered, checking the monitors mounted near the portico door. "They're armed with compact submachine guns. They aren't here to talk. Silvio wants Dante dead so he can reclaim the family seat, and he wants you dead so there's no paper trail to the assets."

"They don't know the layout of the property," Dante analyzed quickly, stepping beside me. He didn't try to take the shotgun from my hands. He didn't tell me to stay behind him. He simply adjusted his stance, shielding my left flank with his wider frame. "The stone stairs have three choke points. If they take the stairs, they’re dead. If they take the path through the olive grove, they’ll have the elevation disadvantage."

"They won't take the stairs," I said. "Silvio’s men are lazy. They’ll try to come up through the service road on the western cliff using the golf carts my landlord keeps at the boat house."

Right on cue, the high-pitched whine of an electric motor drifted up through the humid morning air, muffled by the dense foliage of the lemon groves.

"Smart girl," Dante murmured.

"Don't flatter me, Moretti. If a single bullet chips my terrace tiles, you're paying for the restoration."

"I'll buy you the entire cliff," he muttered, drawing his weapon.

"I don't want the cliff. I want my peace."

The first golf cart burst through the treeline two hundred yards below us, speeding up the gravel driveway. Two men in dark tactical gear were inside, both carrying MP5s.

Marco didn't hesitate. He leaned over the balustrade, rested his elbows on the stone, and fired three controlled double-taps. The front left tire of the cart exploded. The vehicle lurched violently to the left, slamming into a centuries-old olive trunk, throwing the passenger over the hood into the limestone gravel.

The second cart swerved around the wreckage, and the men inside opened fire.

Bullets chewed into the facade of the villa, sending splinters of terra cotta and marble showering over our heads. The crack of gunfire echoed off the high cliffs of Amalfi like rolling thunder, scattering gulls across the turquoise water below.

Dante lunged forward, his arm wrapping around my waist, hauling me down behind the thick balustrade just as a burst of automatic fire shattered the glass table where my espresso cup had been resting seconds earlier.

The porcelain cup exploded into white dust. The velvet ring box tumbled to the floor, rolling against Dante's leather shoe.

"Stay down!" he ordered, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot against my ear.

"Get off me!" I shoved his shoulder back, rolling onto my knees. "I told you, I'm not your fragile little plaything anymore, Dante!"

I raised the Benelli over the rim of the stone wall, aimed down the path where the fallen passenger was scrambling to his feet with an assault rifle, and pulled the trigger.

The heavy recoil slammed into my shoulder, but I held the line. The blast tore into the gravel six inches from the man's boots, sending sharp shrapnel into his legs. He screamed, dropping the gun and collapsing into the dirt.

Dante fired twice through the balustrade's ornate gaps. Two clean, surgical shots. The driver of the second cart slumped over the steering wheel, and the vehicle sputtered to a halt against a dry-stone wall.

"Two down," Marco called out from the corner of the terrace. "Four more coming up on foot through the lemon terraces! They’re flanking left!"

Dante glanced down at the ring box lying between his shoes. Without missing a beat, he scooped it up, shoved it into his pocket, and looked up at me with those cold, fierce eyes.