She Warned the Older Mafia Boss, “Someone Will See Us”—He Pulled Her Closer and Said, “Let Them.”

The Denver Athletic Club’s private fourth-floor dining room was reserved for men who controlled state budgets and women who dictated high society guest lists. The mahogany-paneled walls were lined with oil paintings of former governors, and the thick Persian rugs muffled every footstep.

Julianna Vance was already seated at the corner banquette when Edmund and Rosalie arrived.

Julianna had prepared for war. She wore an impeccably tailored ivory power suit with sharp shoulder pads, her golden hair swept back in a sleek chignon, a three-carat diamond solitaire flashing on her right index finger. Beside her sat two corporate lawyers with leather briefcases and cold, shark-like expressions.

When the oak doors opened and Edmund walked in with Rosalie on his arm, Julianna’s gaze locked onto Rosalie like a missile targeting system.

Rosalie was not wearing her old black work dress.

Clara had spent the morning working with a private boutique stylist who had delivered three racks of clothing directly to the estate. Rosalie now wore a midnight-blue wrap dress made of heavy silk jersey that draped effortlessly over her curves, hugging her waist and accentuating the full swell of her hips and bust. Around her throat sat a delicate strand of South Sea pearls that Edmund had fastened with his own hands before they left the house.

She looked formidable. Real. Breathtaking.

Julianna’s eyes narrowed marginally, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her features before her smooth, plastic smile returned.

“Edmund,” Julianna purred, not bothering to stand. “How delightful of you to accept my invitation. And you brought your... companion.”

Edmund pulled out the chair directly opposite Julianna, waiting until Rosalie was comfortably seated before taking his own place beside her. Michael remained stationed outside the door, visible through the reinforced glass window.

“State your business, Julianna,” Edmund said, his voice flat and dismissive. “I have a board meeting at two.”

Julianna waved a dismissive hand toward her lawyers, who slid a thick leather folder across the table. “The western shipping terminals. My family wants the exclusive transport rights for the incoming automotive components from Seattle. In exchange, we are willing to cede forty percent of our downtown warehouse leases to the Hawthorne Group.”

Edmund didn't touch the folder. He didn't even look down at it.

“The western docks were settled five years ago under my brother’s supervision,” Edmund said coldly. “You have no standing to reopen the treaty.”

“Things change, Edmund,” Julianna said, leaning forward, resting her elbows on the linen tablecloth. Her smile turned razor-sharp as she turned her eyes toward Rosalie. “Circumstances shift. Men get older. They lose their sharpness. They make sentimental errors in public ballrooms.”

Rosalie felt the insult strike like a slap, but she kept her hands folded tightly in her lap, remembering Ruth’s voice: *Never let a bully see you sweat.*

“Miss Bennett,” Julianna said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. “Tell me, how is the catering industry surviving these days? It must be terribly exhausting, picking up dirty napkins after men like Edmund have finished their drinks.”

The two lawyers smirked.

Rosalie looked at Julianna. For the first time, she didn't see an untouchable queen of high society. She saw a desperate, aging predator trying to maintain control over an empire that was slipping through her fingers.

“It is exhausting, Miss Vance,” Rosalie said, her voice clear, calm, and carrying a surprising resonance across the private room. “Especially when you have to clean up after guests who hide their bad financial quarters behind four-thousand-dollar designer suits.”

The room went dead silent.

Julianna’s smile flickered. “Excuse me?”

Rosalie tilted her head, her sharp eyes taking in every tiny detail of the woman across from her—the skill she had honed over a decade of surviving in high-end hospitality.

“Your left cufflink is a replacement, Miss Vance,” Rosalie noted evenly. “The gold plating is three shades paler than the original set you wore at the governor’s charity dinner last month. Your family’s third-quarter shipping invoices are sixty days past due at the port authority—I know because my uncle runs the freight logistics desk at the rail yard. You don't want forty percent of the downtown warehouses; you need Edmund to absorb your operating losses before the federal auditors arrive next month.”

The two lawyers beside Julianna visibly stiffened, exchanging panicked glances.

Julianna’s face turned an ugly, mottled red. Her polished veneer cracked completely. “You insolent little—”

*Crack.*

Edmund’s hand slammed flat against the mahogany table. The crystal water goblets rattled violently.

Julianna choked on her words, freezing instantly.

Edmund leaned forward, his silver hair catching the amber light of the chandelier, his slate-gray eyes radiating pure, unadulterated menace.

“If you speak to her again with that tone,” Edmund whispered, every word landing like a hammer on an anvil, “I will dismantle your family’s shipping empire before the sun sets tonight. I will buy your debts, call your loans, and leave you begging on the steps of the municipal court.”

He stood up, towering over the table.

“The deal is dead, Julianna. And you have seventy-two hours to clear your containers from my western rail lines.”