The Plus Size Maid Was Slapped for Moving His Mother’s Chair—What She Found Stunned the Mafia Boss

Harold froze, the cigarette dropping from his trembling lips.

He scrambled to his feet, but Marco was already there, slamming the older man against the cold stone of the garden wall. Marco jammed the barrel of his pistol directly under Harold’s chin.

“Make a sound, Harold, and I’ll paint these roses with your brains,” Marco whispered.

Emma stepped out of the shadows and walked over to the stone bench. She reached underneath and peeled the white envelope free. She ripped it open. Inside was a handwritten note detailing Victor’s security rotation for the upcoming weekend.

“It’s the guard schedules,” Emma said, holding the paper up.

Harold slumped against the wall, weeping openly. “Please! Please, don't kill me! They forced me!”

“Who forced you, you pathetic rat?” Marco snarled, pressing the gun harder.

“Julian!” Harold sobbed, his aristocratic facade completely shattered. “Julian found out about my gambling debts! I owed the Falcones two hundred thousand dollars. Julian paid it off, but he said if I didn't plant the bugs and pass him the schedules, he would give me to the Falcone enforcers!”

“So you sold out Victor to save your own skin,” Marco said, disgusted.

“Julian wants to kill him!” Harold cried, frantic. “Julian is planning a coup during the gala on Friday night! He’s going to let the Falcone hitmen in through the service tunnels!”

Emma’s blood ran cold. The annual Blackwood Gala was only two days away. Over three hundred guests would be in the manor. It would be a bloodbath.

“Marco, we have to tell Victor,” Emma said urgently.

“We will,” Marco replied. He grabbed Harold by the collar and dragged him toward the basement entrance. “But Harold here is going to spend the next two days enjoying the hospitality of our holding cells.”

They dragged the weeping butler down into the soundproof depths of the manor.

When they reached Victor’s study to deliver the news, Victor didn't explode in rage. He sat perfectly still behind his desk, his silver eyes reflecting the firelight. The betrayal of his own cousin was a deep, agonizing wound, but a mafia boss could not afford to bleed.