A Widowed Mafia Boss Faked His Death To Test His Siblings— Their Cruelty To His Daughter Stunned Him

By the fourth day following Ezra’s supposed death, the illusion of grief at the Beacon Hill estate had completely disintegrated.

Griffin Cross officially moved into Ezra’s private study on the second floor. Within forty-eight hours, he had replaced Ezra’s dark mahogany desk with an ostentatious glass-and-gold table, tossed Nadia’s family portraits into cardboard boxes in the attic, and filled the estate with his loud, boisterous associates.

Paige Harrington took over the master bedroom suite. She spent her afternoons lounging on Nadia’s velvet chaise lounge, sipping imported champagne, and trying on Nadia’s leftover designer jewelry.

For five-year-old Rosie, the world had turned into a nightmare.

"I want my daddy," Rosie cried softly, sitting on the edge of her small bed.

She had been moved out of her bright, sunlit room on the second floor and forced into a cramped, windowless servant’s bedroom at the far end of the third-floor corridor. Paige had claimed Rosie’s old room was needed for her personal wardrobe and dressing area.

Willa knelt beside the little girl, gently combing her dark hair. Her own heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, but she forced a bright, reassuring smile onto her face.

"Your daddy loves you so much, Rosie," Willa whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "He’s... he’s in a place where he’s watching over us right now. He would want you to be strong."

"Why did Paige take my room?" Rosie asked, her lip trembling. "She threw my drawing of Mommy in the trash."

Willa’s jaw tightened. Anger, hot and volatile, flared in her chest. She had retrieved that drawing from the waste bin an hour ago, smoothing out the crumpled paper and hiding it under Rosie’s mattress.

"Don't worry about Paige, sweetheart," Willa said gently. "You have me. I’m not going anywhere."

The bedroom door banged open, crashing against the wall.

Paige stood in the doorway, dressed in a black silk robe, a glass of wine in her hand. Her eyes swept over the small room with disdain before landing on Willa.

"Why isn't she dressed?" Paige snapped. "Griffin has three board members coming for dinner tonight. I don't want this brat wandering down into the dining room making noise."

Willa stood up slowly, stepping between Paige and the little girl. She drew herself up to her full height, her green eyes flashing with steel. "Rosie is five years old, Miss Harrington. She just lost her father. She belongs in her own home, at her own family’s table."

Paige took a slow step forward, her eyes narrowing into cruel slits. "This isn't her home anymore, nanny. It’s Griffin’s. And as far as I’m concerned, this little leech is an expensive burden we don't need."

"How dare you," Willa breathed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Nadia was your cousin! Ezra gave you a home when you had nothing! How can you treat his daughter like this?"

SLAP!

The sharp sound of the strike echoed through the tiny room.

Willa’s head snapped to the side, her cheek burning with a bright red imprint. She stumbled back a step, but she did not drop her gaze. She glared at Paige with absolute defiance.

In the corner, Rosie let out a terrified shriek, hiding her face in her stuffed rabbit.

"Know your place, girl," Paige hissed, pointing a manicured finger at Willa’s face. "You’re a paid servant. You take orders from me now. You will keep this child upstairs, out of sight and out of mind. If I hear so much as a cry from this room tonight, I will have Griffin’s guards throw you out into the snow without a penny of your wages."

Paige turned on her heel and swept out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Willa stood frozen for a moment, her cheek throbbed with heat, tears of outrage pricking the corners of her eyes. But then she heard Rosie’s soft, hitching sobs.

Willa immediately turned around, dropping to her knees, and pulled Rosie into her arms. "Shh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I’m here."

Ten miles away, in the dark warehouse basement, the glass cup in Ezra’s hand shattered.

sharp shards of glass bit into his palm, blood dripping onto the dark wood of his desk, but Ezra did not seem to feel it. His grey eyes were locked onto the small monitor displaying the infrared feed of Rosie’s third-floor room.

He had watched Paige strike Willa. He had seen his tiny daughter trembling in the corner, stripped of her room, her clothes, and her father’s love.

"Boss," Marcus said urgently, stepping forward with a roll of gauze. "Your hand—"

"Marcus," Ezra interrupted. His voice wasn't loud. It was terrifyingly quiet—a frozen whisper from the depths of hell.

"Yes, Don Ezra?"

"How many men does Griffin have posted at the front gate?"

"Eight," Marcus replied. "Plus Victor’s three personal guards inside the house."

Ezra slowly unwrapped his bloody hand, looking at his reflection in the dark monitor screen.

"Tell our men to stand by," Ezra whispered, his teeth grinding together so hard his jaw muscles stood out like cords. "They think two weeks is enough to bury me. I will give them eleven more days. I want every document signed. I want every single traitor to put their name on paper."