The Mafia boss secretly returned before dawn from London to test his fiancée, only to catch her terrorizing his widowed sister and plotting to steal his dead mother's trust

The mahogany-paneled study on the ground floor of the Mercer mansion was a sanctuary of old wealth, filled with leather-bound first editions, heavy Persian rugs, and a massive oak desk that had belonged to Dominic’s grandfather.

At 3:15 PM, Brooke sat at that desk.

She had moved her planning binders into Dominic’s private workspace—a territory she had been warned never to enter uninvited. But with Dominic supposedly three thousand miles away across the Atlantic, she felt invincible.

She was currently rewriting the wedding seating chart, aggressively scratching out the names of several old-guard Newport families who had loyalty to Natalie, replacing them with Harrington political allies.

The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.

Brooke didn't look up immediately, assuming it was Emma or one of the junior maids coming to clear away her lunch tray. “Leave the coffee on the sideboard and close the door behind you. And tell the kitchen the canapés for the rehearsal dinner need to be completely reworked.”

Silence answered her.

Brooke frowned, lifting her eyes from the seating chart.

Dominic was standing in the doorway.

The breath instantly left her lungs. The pen slipped from her fingers, rolling across the leather desk blotter and dropping onto the rug.

For three terrifying seconds, Brooke’s brain refused to process reality. She stared at him, taking in the black overcoat, the faint scent of rain and cold air, and the absolute, glacial stillness in his slate-gray eyes.

“D-Dominic?” she stammered, scrambling to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. “You... you’re supposed to be in London. Your meetings... the summit...”

“The summit concluded early,” Dominic said smoothly, walking into the room with slow, measured strides. He didn't take off his coat. He didn't smile. He walked straight toward her until he was standing on the opposite side of the massive oak desk.

Brooke’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Panic clawed at her throat, but years of high-society conditioning kicked in, forcing her face into a mask of joyful shock.

She rounded the desk, arms outstretched, rushing toward him. “Oh, my God! You’re home early! Why didn't you call? I would have had the staff prepare—”

She stopped dead inches from his chest.

Dominic hadn't raised his arms to catch her. He stood like a monolith, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, looking down at her with an expression so cold it made her blood run backward.

“You seem surprised, Brooke,” he said softly.

“Surprised? Of course I’m surprised! I’m thrilled!” She forced a bright, breathless laugh, though her hands were trembling as she rested them tentatively on his lapels. “You missed me. You flew all night just to surprise me before the weekend, didn't you?”

Dominic looked down at her hands resting on his chest, then slowly raised his gaze back to her eyes. “I flew home because I received a phone call.”

Brooke’s stomach plummeted. “A... phone call? From whom?”

“From my nine-year-old nephew,” Dominic replied, his voice dropping an octave, turning the study into an interrogation room. “Noah was crying, Brooke. He wanted to know why his aunt told him he and his mother were going to be thrown out of their home the day after our wedding.”

The color drained entirely from Brooke’s face. She stepped back, stumbling slightly against the edge of the rug.

“That... that’s a misunderstanding,” she babbled, her words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “Natalie is under a lot of stress. She’s grieving, Dominic, she’s completely unstable! She misinterprets everything everyone says. I was trying to help her plan a transition into a modern apartment, and she twisted it into some cruel threat—”

“She has a recording,” Dominic lied smoothly, watching her eyes widen with absolute terror.

“A... a recording?”

“Natalie keeps a voice memo app running on her phone when she feels overwhelmed,” Dominic lied with chilling conviction. “She played it for me this morning. Every word. Every threat. Every attempt to coerce my sister into signing away my mother’s trust.”

Brooke’s breath hitched. She realized, with sudden, blinding clarity, that her entire plan had unraveled. The pre-nup, the trust, the social climbing, the takeover of the east bluff—all of it was hanging by a thread over an open furnace.

Tears—real, panicked tears—welled up in her eyes. It was her ultimate weapon.

In a fraction of a second, her expression collapsed into heartbreaking devastation. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with pathetic, ragged sobs.

“I was just trying to protect us, Dominic!” she wept, her voice cracking masterfully. “The wedding stress... the pressure from my family... everyone expects perfection from us! I let my anxiety get the better of me. I spoke harshly to Natalie, and I regret it every second of the day. Please... please don't look at me like that.”

She dropped her hands, looking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, stepping closer to press her body against his, looking up through dark, shimmering eyelashes.

“We’re getting married in forty-eight hours, Dominic. Don't let a family misunderstanding destroy what we’ve built. I love you.”

Dominic stood completely still, letting her press against him. He didn't pull away, but he didn't embrace her either. He looked down at her with a look of clinical, detached curiosity—the way a scientist might study a fascinating specimen under a microscope before dissecting it.

“You love me,” Dominic repeated flatly.

“With all my heart,” she sobbed, burying her face against his shoulder.

“Then prove it,” Dominic whispered into her hair.

Brooke froze, her sobbing instantly cutting off. “What... what do you mean?”

Dominic stepped back, breaking her grip effortlessly, and walked over to the oak desk. He picked up the leather folder containing the trust waiver that Brooke had left lying out.

He opened it, flipped past the legal jargon, and tossed it onto the center of the desk.

“Sign a rider relinquishing any and all claims to the east bluff cottage,” Dominic said quietly. “Amend the pre-nup to state that my family’s properties and trusts are entirely separate from our marital estate, effective immediately.”

Brooke stared at the folder, her mask of remorse shattering into a million pieces. The greed and entitlement rushed back into her eyes like toxic sludge.

“You want me to sign away my legal rights to protect them?” she hissed, her voice losing all its sweet vulnerability. “After I’ve spent six months organizing this wedding? After I’ve endured your sister living under our feet like a permanent charity case?”