I Accidentally Called the Mafia Boss “Honey” in Front of 30 Employees—Then He Summoned Me to His Private Office

The peace, however, was not meant to last without one final, bloody reckoning.

On Monday morning at 9:00 a.m., Paige stepped out of the private elevator onto the executive floor of Moretti Logistics. She wore an ivory tailored suit with sharp shoulders, emerald heels, and Gabriel’s signet ring resting proudly on her right index finger.

The bullpen on the fifth floor was buzzing with panicked whispers.

Sylvia, the office manager, was practically hyperventilating behind her desk. When she saw Paige step out of the glass elevator, she scrambled to her feet, her face pale.

“Paige! Oh God, Paige, where have you been?!” Sylvia hissed, glancing nervously toward the executive boardroom at the end of the hall. “The board of directors called an emergency session! Old man Santoro’s legal team is in there with two federal investigators from the SEC! They’re claiming Mr. Moretti used company assets to run an illegal private military operation at Pier 42 on Friday!”

Paige didn't flinch. She adjusted the cuff of her ivory jacket, her expression cool and untouchable.

“Is Gabriel in there?”

“He’s inside right now!” Sylvia whispered frantically. “They’re trying to strip his voting shares and hand corporate control to the Santoro holding group! You need to run, Paige! If the feds tie you to him, you’ll go down for conspiracy!”

“Thank you for the warning, Sylvia,” Paige said calmly. “Go back to your desk. Everything is under control.”

Without waiting for a response, Paige turned on her heel and strode directly down the central aisle toward the heavy double oak doors of the boardroom.

Her heels clicked against the polished parquet floor like a firing squad.

She didn't knock. She shoved both doors open with authority, letting them slam back against the wall with a resounding *CRACK*.

The twenty men seated around the sixty-foot mahogany conference table stopped shouting instantly.

At the head of the table sat Gabriel, completely unbothered, sipping an espresso while four corporate attorneys screamed around him. Across from him sat Don Vincent Santoro—a frail, white-haired mafioso with eyes like black gravel, surrounded by three high-priced white-collar defense lawyers and two badge-wearing federal agents.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Don Santoro’s lead attorney barked, slamming his palm on the table. “This is a closed executive session! Remove this woman immediately!”

Two private security guards moved toward Paige.

Gabriel didn’t shout. He simply raised his index finger.

The two guards froze instantly, taking three steps back, keeping their heads down.

Paige walked straight down the center of the room, tossing a thick leather portfolio onto the center of the mahogany table. It slid thirty feet across the polished wood, stopping directly in front of the lead SEC investigator.

“That file,” Paige announced, her voice ringing through the cavernous boardroom with absolute authority, “contains the forensic digital signatures of forty-seven shell corporations registered in the Cayman Islands under the name of Vincent Santoro.”

Don Santoro’s wrinkled face tightened into a sneer. “Nonsense. Pure fabrication from Moretti’s little whore.”

Before Gabriel could move, Paige stepped forward, leaning her hands on the table, fixing the old don with a look of lethal, icy contempt.

“Those shell companies,” Paige continued smoothly, ignoring the insult entirely, “were used to launder eighty million dollars through Terminal 4 over the last eighteen months. But more importantly, gentlemen, on page forty-two, you will find the wire transfers showing that Don Santoro paid thirty thousand dollars to a rogue logistics clerk named Kevin Miller to steal proprietary Moretti shipping software.”

The two federal agents picked up the file, their eyes widening as they flipped through the meticulously compiled spreadsheets, bank routing slips, and sworn affidavits.

“This paperwork is certified by the New York State Attorney General’s office as of seven o’clock this morning,” Paige said, looking at the lead agent. “Moretti Logistics wasn't running a private militia at Pier 42. We were assisting federal marshals in apprehending Anthony Santoro on charges of interstate extortion and treason.”

The room erupted into pandemonium.

Don Santoro’s lawyers frantically tried to grab the binder, but the federal agents stood up, drawing their badges.

“Vincent Santoro,” the lead agent declared, unholstering a pair of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for corporate espionage, racketeering, and conspiracy to commit murder. Step away from the table.”

Don Santoro sat frozen, his empire crumbling before his very eyes, glaring at Paige with pure, unadulterated venom. “Who the hell are you?” he croaked.

Paige smiled—a breathtaking, dangerous smile that mirrored Gabriel’s own.