The Broke Maid Punched America’s Most Feared Mafia Boss

Part 2: “Paying a debt.”

Within thirty minutes, Adrian Duca had done what every prayer, phone call, appeal, charity application, and desperate letter had failed to do.

Toby Jenkins was moved into a private pulmonary suite at Mount Sinai. His outstanding medical bills were erased. His experimental treatment was approved and funded indefinitely through a foundation Cara had never heard of.

She stared at Adrian’s phone as the confirmation emails arrived one after another.

“You saved my life,” Adrian said. “I saved his.”

Cara’s tears came quietly this time.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Adrian’s voice hardened. “Your old life ended the moment you punched me.”

She looked up.

“What does that mean?”

“It means Apex will be told you resigned. Your apartment will be emptied. Your brother will be protected. You will stay close to me until I know who else is trying to put me in the ground.”

“I’m not your prisoner.”

“No,” Adrian said. “You’re my fiancée.”

Cara stared at him.

“That’s insane.”

“It’s practical. No one questions why a fiancée stands beside me at dinners, meetings, galas, family events. They’ll dismiss you. They’ll talk around you. They’ll underestimate you.”

“I don’t know anything about your world.”

“You know how to be invisible.”

She hated that he was right.

Three days later, Cara Jenkins walked into the annual Metropolitan Waterfront Alliance Gala at The Pierre wearing an emerald Carolina Herrera gown and a six-carat diamond ring that felt like a handcuff.

Flashbulbs exploded as Adrian guided her through the ballroom with his palm resting at the small of her back.

“Smile,” he murmured near her ear. “You look like you’re walking to your execution.”

“I might be.”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s not comforting.”

His mouth twitched. “It wasn’t meant to be.”

The room smelled like champagne, lilies, expensive perfume, and power. Senators laughed with union men. Judges shook hands with contractors. Billionaires pretended not to recognize criminals who owned them.

Adrian introduced her smoothly.

“My fiancée, Cara.”

The lie traveled through the gala like fire through dry grass.

Some women studied her dress. Some men studied her body. Everyone studied the ring.

Then Adrian led her to Carmine Russo.

Carmine was short, thick-necked, and built like a man who had survived being hit by several cars and taken it personally. He had run construction rackets for the Duca family for years. He had also been Vincent Rizzo’s closest friend.

“Adrian,” Carmine said, smiling too widely. “And this must be the girl.”

Cara felt Adrian’s hand tighten slightly at her back.

“Cara,” Adrian said. “My fiancée.”

“Beautiful.” Carmine lifted his glass. “A little sudden, though, isn’t it? With poor Vincent barely cold.”

“Life moves whether we approve or not,” Adrian said.

Cara lowered her eyes and played the part Adrian had given her. Pretty. Quiet. Unthreatening.

But she watched.

Carmine’s fingers tapped too fast against his glass. His smile flashed whenever Adrian looked at him, then died the second Adrian turned away. And twice—no, three times—his gaze cut toward Adrian’s inside jacket pocket, where Adrian kept his private phone.

Then Cara saw Carmine bump a waiter near the kitchen doors.

It looked accidental.

It wasn’t.

Something small passed from Carmine’s hand into the waiter’s apron.

Cara waited until they were alone on a balcony overlooking Central Park.