A Little Girl Asked the Mafia Boss Why He Fired Her Mom, and Her Next Five Words Made Him Forget How to Breathe - Spotlight8

The Annual Metropolitan Financial Gala was the most exclusive event of the New York social calendar—a glittering sea of black tuxedos, silk gowns, diamond necklaces, and dangerous power. Held in the breathtaking glass atrium of the Winter Garden at Brookfield Place, the event was packed with politicians, billionaires, and high-society elite.

Among them walked the deadliest predators in the city.

Dominic Moretti adjusted the cuffs of his bespoke tuxedo as he stood near the grand marble staircase overlooking the ballroom. Beside him, Sophia took a slow, deep breath.

She looked utterly breathtaking. She wore an emerald green silk floor-length gown that clung perfectly to her silhouette, her dark hair pinned up in an elegant vintage chignon. A diamond necklace—a Moretti heirloom—sparkled at her throat. But beneath the glamour, her eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd of hundreds of masked guests like a soldier entering a minefield.

At the penthouse, Lily was guarded by six of Dominic's most trusted men, locked behind three layers of biometric security. Tonight was not about defense. Tonight was a trap.

"You don't have to do this," Dominic whispered, his hand gently resting on the small of her back. "You could have stayed with Lily."

Sophia turned her head, looking him dead in the eye. "Six years ago, I ran because I thought you didn't want us. I am done running, Dominic. I am an accountant; I know how to spot an irregularity in a room full of fakes. Let's find your brother."

Dominic felt a surge of fierce pride rush through his chest. He offered his arm, and she took it, her fingers sliding firmly around his elbow.

They descended into the ballroom.

"Victor is stationed at the security monitor hub upstairs," Dominic said softly as they moved through the crowd of laughing socialites. "Every camera in this building has facial recognition running against Julian's young photographs and digital age-progressed models. If he steps within fifty feet of a glass panel, we have him."

"He won't make it easy," Sophia noted, her eyes darting past a group of hedge fund managers sipping champagne. "He sent that note to mock you. He wants you paranoid. He wants you looking at everyone."

"I am looking at everyone," Dominic said grimly.

Suddenly, a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes stepped into their path. He bowed his head politely. "A drink for the guest of honor?"

Dominic reached out to brush the waiter aside, but Sophia’s eyes caught something. She froze.

She looked at the waiter's wrist. Protruding from beneath his crisp white cuff was a faint, blue tattoo—a tiny, stylized trident.

Sophia's heart stopped. She had spent the last three days auditing Moretti Enterprises' dark ledger files. That specific mark was the emblem of a private mercenary company based out of Marseille.

"Dominic," she whispered, her grip on his arm turning into an iron vice. "The waiter."

Before Dominic could react, the waiter dropped his tray. The heavy crystal glasses shattered against the marble floor with a deafening crash that echoed through the high-ceilinged atrium.

POP! POP! POP!

The lights in the Winter Garden suddenly blew out, plunging the massive glass room into pitch darkness. Screams erupted instantly. Hundreds of wealthy guests began stampeding toward the exit doors in blind, panicked terror.

"Sophia! Get down!" Dominic roared, pulling her behind a heavy concrete pillar as chaos erupted around them.

In the dark, muffled gunshots with suppressors began to ring out. Red laser sights cut through the shadows like deadly spider webs.

"Victor!" Dominic yelled into his hidden earpiece, pressing his back against the cold stone pillar, drawing his concealed sidearm. "Victor, we have a breach on the main floor!"

Static roared in his ear, followed by a cold, cultured voice that sent a chill straight down Dominic's spine.

"Victor is currently indisposed, little brother."

Dominic's hand went rigid on his weapon. "Julian."

"You really thought you could trap me?" Julian's voice chuckled softly through the comms channel. "I built the security systems for father before you even knew what a ledger was. I own this building tonight."

"Where is she?" Dominic growled, sweeping his eyes frantically through the dark, chaotic crowd of screaming guests.

"Look up, Dominic."

Dominic leaned out from behind the pillar, looking up toward the second-story glass catwalk that spanned the center of the atrium.

A single spotlight clicked on above the catwalk.

Standing under the harsh beam was a man in a pristine white suit. He looked terrifyingly like Dominic—same sharp jaw, same dark eyes, but his face was marred by a thin, jagged scar running from his temple down to his cheekbone.

And standing in front of Julian, a suppressed pistol pressed firmly against her temple, was Sophia.

Dominic's heart ceased to beat. He looked beside him. In the darkness and the stampede of the crowd, she had been pulled away from him.

"Sophia!" Dominic screamed, stepping out into the open, his gun raised straight at his brother.

"Ah, ah, ah!" Julian tsk-tsked into the comms, shoving the gun barrel harder against Sophia's skull. Sophia winced, but she didn't scream. She kept her eyes locked on Dominic, shaking her head faintly.

"Drop the gun, Dominic," Julian commanded, his voice echoing over the atrium's public address system. "Drop it, or I paint this glass ceiling with your sweet little accountant's brains."

The remaining guests had fled the room. The atrium was silent now, save for the hum of the emergency lights and the heavy rain beating against the glass roof high above. Ten armed mercenaries in black tactical gear stepped out from the shadows, surrounding Dominic, their rifles pointed at his chest.