They Humiliated His Pregnant Maid—Until The Mafia Boss Asked, “Who Touched My Wife?”

The West Wing study was heavily insulated, blocking out the loud, thumping music of the gala entirely.

Dominic sat across the heavy mahogany desk from Declan O'Rourke. Three of Dominic’s top lawyers stood nervously by the bookshelves, while O'Rourke’s massive enforcers guarded the door.

A thick, multi-page contract rested on the polished wood. It wasn't just a weapons treaty; it was a formal declaration of alliance. By signing this document, the Irish syndicate officially pledged their immense firepower and distribution networks to the Hamilton empire.

“You understand the terms, Hamilton?” O'Rourke asked, pulling a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket. “If I sign this, I’m backing your war against the Russians. I’m putting a target on my own back. If you fail to take Petrov down, my men will slaughter you before the Russians even get a chance.”

“Petrov is a dead man breathing, Declan,” Dominic promised, his eyes burning with absolute, unshakeable certainty. “With your guns, I will wipe his entire bloodline from the map by sunrise.”

O'Rourke stared at him for a long, calculating moment. He recognized the terrifying, absolute conviction of a man who had absolutely nothing left to lose.

O'Rourke smiled, a dark, dangerous expression, and signed his name with a dramatic flourish.

Dominic took the pen and signed his own name beside it.

The ink dried. The alliance was forged in blood and paper.

“To war, then,” O'Rourke toasted, standing up and extending his hand.

Dominic shook it firmly. The heavy burden of playing politics, of hiding in the shadows, of placating arrogant Senators and enduring the abuse of a spoiled heiress, entirely vanished from his shoulders. He was fully armed. He was untouchable.

Dominic turned to Vincent, who was standing quietly in the corner of the study.

“It’s done,” Dominic whispered, a terrifying, beautiful smile finally breaking across his face.

“What are your orders, Boss?” Vincent asked, his hand dropping to his weapon.

“Lock the perimeter,” Dominic commanded softly. “Nobody leaves the ballroom. Have the strike teams move into position around Petrov’s strongholds in the city. And tell the men inside the house to prepare.”