SOLD TO THE DON: I Thought I Was His Private Chef—Until He Locked The Doors And Handed Me A Blood-Stained Apron

Two weeks later.

The grand dining hall of the Moretti estate had never looked more magnificent—or more lethal.

Tonight was the Great Summit.

Every Don of the Five Families of New York, along with the visiting syndicates from Chicago and Philadelphia, had gathered under one roof. Over fifty of the most dangerous men on the North American continent sat along an eighty-foot banquet table carved from solid black walnut, lit by three crystal chandeliers that sparkled like frozen stars.

At the head of the table sat Dominic Salvatore Moretti, impeccably tailored in a bespoke midnight-blue tuxedo, radiating the calm, absolute authority of an emperor who had just crushed a rebellion.

And at the center of the room, directing the entire evening like an admiral commanding a naval fleet, stood Elena Moretti.

She wore a breathtaking emerald-green silk evening gown with an open back that subtly displayed the scars of kitchen burns she wore like medals of honor. Around her neck was a diamond choker that had belonged to Dominic’s grandmother.

She wasn't hiding in the kitchen tonight.

She was presenting the feast herself.

“Gentlemen,” Lena’s voice rang out across the vaulted hall, silencing the low rumble of mafia bosses and capos instantly.

Every head turned toward her. Don Lucchese smiled warmly; the boss from Chicago leaned forward with genuine respect.

Two dozen white-gloved servers emerged from the kitchen doors in perfect military formation, carrying silver-domed platters.

“Tonight’s main course,” Lena announced, walking the length of the table with the regal grace of a monarch, “is a dry-aged prime beef tenderloin, seared over white oak, served with a black winter truffle reduction, bone marrow pomme purée, and braised baby leeks.”

She stopped behind Dominic’s chair, resting one hand lightly on his shoulder. Dominic reached up, covering her hand with his own, his thumb rubbing over her wedding band.

“Every ingredient on this table,” Lena continued, her gaze sweeping across the most ruthless men in the country, “was sourced through the Moretti logistics corridor. Inspected by my team. Verified for absolute purity.”

The bosses looked down at their plates. The message was unmistakable: The Montreal pipeline was dead. Marco’s treason was purged. The Moretti supply lines were cleaner, stronger, and more lethal than ever.

Don Lucchese lifted his silver cloche, inhaling the rich, intoxicating aroma of roasted marrow and truffles. He took a single bite, closed his eyes, and let out a long, reverent sigh.

“Dominic,” Lucchese said, looking down the table at the young Don. “You’ve won every war you’ve ever fought. But marrying this woman was the smartest move your family has made in fifty years.”

A chorus of approvals and raised wine glasses echoed down the long table.

“To Don Moretti!” someone shouted.

“To the Lady of the House!” Don Lucchese countered, raising his glass directly to Lena.

The room erupted into applause and toasts, the clinking of crystal ringing out like celebration bells.

Dominic stood up. He turned to Lena, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side.

“You stole my summit,” Dominic murmured into her ear, his lips brushing against her diamond earring.

“I didn't steal it,” Lena whispered back, tilting her head to meet his dark, smoldering gaze. “I catered it. That’s seventy-five dollars a plate, Mr. Moretti. I expect payment on the first of the month.”

Dominic laughed, his dark eyes sparkling with adoration.