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

The conference room descended into absolute chaos.

Two of Griffin’s armed guards at the door were instantly thrown backward by the force of the blast, crashing onto the marble floor, unconscious.

Smoke and plaster dust billowed into the room like a heavy winter fog. Through the swirling gray haze, a solitary figure stepped into the doorway.

Griffin froze. The golden fountain pen in his hand slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the glass table, but not a single soul bothered to look at it.

Every pair of eyes was fixed on the doorway.

Because the man who just walked in was supposed to be lying cold in the ground two weeks ago.

Ezra Cross.

Griffin’s face shifted from shock to deathly pale in a heartbeat. He stumbled back, his chair scraping violently against the floor as he nearly tripped over it. "You—you—" He couldn't form a sentence.

Ezra didn't rush. He stood there, still as a statue carved from stone, his gray eyes colder than the Boston winter howling outside the high windows. Slowly, they swept across every face in the room. They landed on Griffin, then moved to Paige, who was shrinking into the corner of the table, her lips trembling but producing no sound.

The room forgot how to breathe.

"Don't stop on my account," Ezra said, his voice low and unhurried, each word dropping like a cold stone into a deep well. "Continue. Keep reading."

He stepped forward, his leather shoes crunching over shattered glass. He picked the parchment will up off the floor, glanced at it with an expression of supreme boredom, then tossed it onto the table.

"I'm curious to hear how you plan to divide my fortune while my body wasn't even cold yet."

"Ezra..." Paige squeaked, her face completely drained of color, her hand clutching her diamond necklace as if it could shield her. "You... you're alive? It... it was an accident! We thought—"

"Quiet, Paige," Ezra interrupted. His tone wasn't raised, but the sheer, absolute command in it made Paige snap her mouth shut instantly, tears of pure terror filling her eyes.

Griffin, panicking, reached frantically for the concealed holster under his suit jacket. "Guards! Shoot him! He’s an impostor! Shoot him!"

Before Griffin’s hand could even clear his coat, four shadow operators dressed in tactical black gear stepped into the room behind Ezra, their assault rifles raised, heavy red laser sights painting bright dots directly onto Griffin’s chest and forehead.

Behind Ezra stepped Marcus, holding a thin silver laptop.

"No one is coming to help you, Griffin," Marcus said calmly. "Your guards at the gate, your men on the lower floors, and your loyalists at the docks have all been disarmed and detained. The Syndicate is under Don Ezra’s total control."

Griffin’s hand froze inside his coat. He looked around the table, desperately searching for support. "Victor! Help me! We had a deal!"

Victor Slade slowly set his pen down. He did not look surprised. He did not look panicked.

Instead, Victor stood up, bowed his head deeply toward Ezra, and stepped away from the table.

"Welcome back, Don Ezra," Victor said smoothly. "The security feeds from the estate have been archived as requested. Every transaction, every conversation, every act of cruelty toward your daughter has been recorded in high definition."

Griffin’s eyes went wide with realization. "You... you knew? You were in on it?!"

"I serve the Cross family, Griffin," Victor said coldly. "Not the snakes who try to devour it."

Ezra walked slowly to the head of the table. He did not sit in the chair. He stood over Griffin, his tall frame blocking out the light from the tall windows, casting a dark, imposing shadow over his terrified half-brother.

"Two weeks," Ezra whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from Griffin’s. "I gave you two weeks, Griffin. I wanted to see if there was a single shred of humanity left in the brother my father raised."

Ezra reached out, his long, scarred fingers gently patting Griffin’s pale cheek.

"You moved into my home," Ezra murmured. "You took my late wife’s belongings. You stole my money. And then..."

Ezra’s gray eyes suddenly burned with a blinding, terrifying fury.

"...you put my five-year-old daughter in a freezing servant’s room, fed her crusts of bread, and tried to ship her to an orphanage."

Griffin began to shake violently, tears of terror spilling down his face. "Ezra... please! I’m your brother! Blood! We share the same father! I was foolish! Paige made me do it! It was her idea!"

"You coward!" Paige shrieked from the corner.

Ezra didn't look at Paige. He kept his eyes locked on Griffin.

"You are no brother of mine," Ezra said softly. "Blood makes you related. Loyalty makes you family. You have neither."

Ezra turned his back on them, looking at Marcus.

"Strip them," Ezra commanded.

"Boss?" Marcus asked.

"Strip them of everything," Ezra ordered, his voice ringing through the silent room. "Every account, every property, every piece of jewelry, every luxury they possess. Seize Griffin’s personal holdings. Revoke Paige’s trust fund. Hand them over to the federal authorities along with the wiretap evidence of their offshore fraud and conspiracy to commit murder."

He paused, looking back over his shoulder at Griffin and Paige, who were both weeping hysterically.

"They wanted to live like kings on stolen money," Ezra said coldly. "Let them spend the next thirty years eating federal prison rations."

"Ezra! Please! Mercy!" Griffin screamed as Marcus’s tactical men grabbed him by his arms, dragging him out of the conference room alongside a wailing Paige. "Ezra!"

The heavy steel doors closed, cutting off their screams forever.

Ezra stood in the silent room. He didn't care about the syndicate. He didn't care about the millions of dollars sitting on the table.