"The Maid Made His Silent Sister Laugh—Then the Mafia Boss Discovered the Secret She Had Buried for Three Years**

Santiago moved like an avenging demon from the shadows.

He didn't use a gun. He tackled his uncle into the balustrade, the sheer force of the impact snapping the carved wooden railing. Both men crashed through the barrier, tumbling down twelve feet onto the marble floor of the foyer below.

They rolled, grappling in the shattered glass. Dario swung his heavy revolver, the barrel smashing across Santiago’s jaw, splitting his skin to the bone. Santiago didn't even flinch. He pinned Dario’s gun arm with one knee, his left hand locking around his uncle's throat like a hydraulic vice.

"Seven years," Santiago hissed, his dark eyes ablaze with terrifying madness. "Seven years she couldn't speak! Seven years she lived in terror!"

Dario wheezed, his face turning dark purple beneath Santiago’s grip. He pulled a hidden blade from his boot with his free hand and drove it toward Santiago’s ribs.

Above them, on the fractured landing, Eleanor saw the flash of steel.

"Santiago!" she screamed.

Without thinking of her own survival, Eleanor vaulted over the broken railing, landing hard on the mezzanine stairs, and hurled a heavy bronze statue of an eagle directly into Dario’s shoulder. The blow shattered his collarbone; the blade clattered harmlessly away across the blood-slick marble.

Santiago seized Dario’s right hand—the hand bearing the silver dragon ring.

With a sickening *CRACK*, Santiago bent the fingers backward, snapping the joints until the dragon ring slipped free, rolling into a puddle of blood.

"That belongs to the dead," Santiago whispered into his uncle's ear.

Dario let out a strangled shriek of agony. "Santiago... we're family... blood of your blood..."

"My family is upstairs," Santiago said coldly.

He drew his combat blade from his tactical vest.

Three seconds later, the traitor who had orchestrated the murder of the Moretti family breathed his last against the cold, shattered marble of the foyer.

Santiago knelt there in the silence, chest heaving, his face covered in blood—both his own and his uncle's. The gunfire outside had ceased. Tomas and the surviving loyal guards burst through the front double doors, assault rifles lowered, securing the perimeter.

"Boss," Tomas gasped, surveying the carnage. "The house is clear. The rest of Dario’s crew is dead or captured."

Santiago didn't answer. He turned his head slowly, looking at Eleanor.

She was sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, clutching her bruised arm, shivering violently in her green dress. Her face was pale, streaked with dust and soot, but her emerald eyes were locked onto his with an intensity that held the entire room together.

Santiago stood up, his limbs trembling from the adrenaline crash. He walked toward her, dropping his bloody blade to the floor with a loud clang.

He knelt in front of her, his bloody, calloused hands gently hovering over her face, terrified to dirty her skin.

"Are you hurt?" he whispered, his voice trembling in a way none of his soldiers had ever heard.