She Kissed His Rival to Make Him Jealous—The Mafia Boss Quietly Locked the Ballroom Doors

The gunshot was deafening inside the enclosed room.

The .38 caliber round caught Declan high in his right collarbone, the impact spinning him halfway around. His shotgun discharged wildly into the ceiling, raining down plaster and sparks from severed wiring as Declan stumbled backward with a strangled cry of agony.

Mateo didn't hesitate. Even wounded, his instincts were lethal. The moment Declan’s grip slipped from his throat, Mateo lunged forward, sweeping Declan’s legs out from under him.

Declan hit the hardwood with a sickening thud. Before he could reach for the weapon he had dropped, Mateo drove his heel down onto Declan’s shattered shoulder, pinning him to the floor.

Declan screamed, writhing in the dust, his blood pooling against the ruined floorboards.

Vivienne stood frozen behind the desk, the revolver still extended in her hands, smoke curling lazily from the barrel. Her ears rang with a high, sustained whine.

Mateo bent down, picking up his dropped Sig Sauer with his uninjured left hand. He pressed the cold muzzle directly against the center of Declan’s forehead.

The manic defiance drained from Declan’s face, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated terror of a man staring into his own grave.

“Wait,” Declan gasped through the blood bubbling in his mouth. “Duca... wait! You can’t kill me... the Council... the treaties—”

“The treaty ended the moment you brought explosives into my home,” Mateo said, his voice flat, completely devoid of rage. It was the terrifying tone of a judge pronouncing a sentence that had been decided months ago.

“Mateo,” Vivienne said, her voice cutting through the ringing in his ears.

Mateo paused. He looked up at her across the smoky, ruined study.

“Don't do it for him,” she said, lowering the revolver with trembling fingers. “If you execute him here, the feds won't sign that immunity agreement. Elena said the DOJ needs him alive to dismantle the Irish syndicate. If you kill him, everything you did for three weeks—everything my father tried to do—it all burns.”

Mateo stared at her. The silence stretched between them, heavy with gunpowder, blood, and the wreckage of their marriage.

Slowly, Mateo lowered the gun from Declan’s forehead. He stepped off Declan’s shoulder and drove the heavy butt of the weapon into Declan’s temple, knocking the man unconscious in an instant.

From the shattered doorway, heavy tactical boots crunched over the debris.

Lorenzo appeared, his suit jacket torn and soaked in blood, his face covered in soot, but very much alive. Behind him were six heavily armed men from Mateo’s inner circle, followed by the distant wail of sirens echoing up from the street below.

“Boss,” Lorenzo said, taking in the scene with a quick, calculating glance. “The perimeter is secure. Fitzpatrick’s backup fled when the NYPD barricades went up on Fifth Avenue.”

“Call Elena Vane,” Mateo ordered, his voice tight as he pressed his hand against his bleeding shoulder. “Tell her to bring her federal transport team to the private freight dock. Tell her Fitzpatrick is packaged and ready for delivery.”

Lorenzo nodded, signaling two of his men to drag Declan’s limp body out of the room.

The guards cleared the wreckage with terrifying efficiency, hauling away the dead and the wounded until only Mateo and Vivienne remained in the smoke-filled ruins of the study.

Mateo leaned back against the desk, his face pale from blood loss. He looked at Vivienne, who was still standing by the console, clutching the empty revolver against her chest like a talisman.

“You shot him,” Mateo said quietly.

Vivienne looked down at the gun in her hands, then set it carefully on the desk. “He was going to kill you.”

“You still could have let him,” Mateo said, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You could have walked out of here with the encryption keys and your father’s money. The feds would have protected you. You would have been free of me.”

Vivienne walked toward him through the drifting dust. She stopped inches away, looking at the blood soaking through his midnight-blue shirt, the soot smeared across his jaw, and the dark, wounded eyes of the man she had thought was a stranger.

“I didn't want freedom from you, Mateo,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I just wanted you to see me.”

Mateo reached out with his good hand, cupping the side of her face. His palm was rough, calloused, and stained with soot, but his touch was impossibly gentle.