“Who Is That Little Girl Wearing My Suit?!”
Chapter 1: The Boss in the Oversized Suit Part I
“WHO IS THAT LITTLE GIRL WEARING MY SUIT?!”
My furious roar shattered the heavy silence of the thirty-fourth floor. At six-foot-four, with inked knuckles and scar tissue running down my left jawline, I was a man who made seasoned hitmen shake when I stepped into a room. Men had offered millions just to avoid looking me in the eye. Yet here I stood, paralyzed in the polished oak doorway of my Manhattan private sanctum, staring at the center of my empire.
Behind my six-foot mahogany desk sat four-year-old Emily. My bespoke Italian wool jacket completely swallowed her small frame, the padded shoulders pooling over the leather armrests like a dark tent. She had paired it with oversized dark sunglasses and my favorite silk crimson tie, which hung crookedly down past her knees over a ruffled purple princess dress. Thick chestnut curls bounced against her rosy cheeks as she propped her elbows on my blotter.
“Your replacement, obviously!” Emily declared, sliding the sunglasses down the bridge of her tiny nose to fix me with wide, hazel-brown eyes. “You’re late, Mr. Moretti.”
Behind me, Marco and Salvatore—two trained killers with loaded Glocks tucked beneath their coats—promptly spun around toward the wall. Their broad shoulders shook violently as they bit their lips to keep from laughing aloud. Laughing in my office was normally grounds for early retirement, but today the air felt surreal.
“Emily,” I said, measuring each syllable with dangerous calm as I crossed the Turkish rug. “Get out of my chair.”
She crossed her chubby arms stubbornly. “Nope. I’m the boss now.”
I folded my arms over my chest, towering over the mahogany desk like a dark cloud. “And why is that?”
She reached into the breast pocket of my oversized jacket, fished out a neon-pink notebook plastered with glittering butterfly stickers, and flipped it open with theatrical gravity. “Because you’re doing everything wrong.”
Salvatore let out a muffled wheeze against the wallpaper. I didn’t blink. “Explain.”
Emily raised one tiny finger. “First, you yell too much.”
“Emily—”
“See? You’re doing it again!” She pointed an accusatory finger, her tone entirely matter-of-fact. “Second, you never eat lunch. You just drink that burnt black sludge.”
“I have meetings.”
“Third, your coffee tastes like angry water!” She slammed the notebook shut, climbed onto the polished leather chair, and scrambled straight onto the surface of my desk. Before I could back away, her small warm hands reached up, grabbed my collar, and carefully straightened the crooked red knot at my throat. She smoothed the silk against my chest with two firm pats. “There. Now you look expensive.”
For one precarious second, the heavy steel armor I had worn around my heart for five long years fractured. A phantom smile threatened my lips. I cleared my throat harshly to banish it. “You’re fired.”
Emily pushed her sunglasses back up with her thumb. “Can’t fire the boss! Now, let’s do business!”
She seized my heavy steel rubber seal—the emblem that authorized tens of millions in logistics across the eastern seaboard—and began slamming it onto the legal pads with ferocious enthusiasm. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
“Emily, stop. Those files are critical.” I stepped forward, reaching out to confiscate the stamp before she inked the pending shipping manifests. But suddenly, her little hand froze in midair. Her button nose wrinkled as she tilted her head over a beige legal folder.
“Uncle Vinny?” Her small voice lost its playful swagger, turning quiet and puzzled.
“What is it, sweetheart?”
“Why does this paper have your name twice?” She lifted two documents pulled from beneath a thick stack of invoices. I glanced down casually, expecting a shipping duplicate. But when my eyes hit the print, my blood turned to ice water. Identical bank routing numbers. Identical wire transfers for three million two hundred thousand dollars. But while the bottom of one bore my authentic sharp flourish, the second bore a counterfeit stroke—an amateurish loop in the letter ‘M’ that I hadn’t noticed because it had been buried beneath ninety pages of routine port clearance.
I seized the contracts as my phone buzzed on the desk—and my chief accountant’s voice came through the speaker, trembling so hard he could barely breathe.
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 2: The Double Signature and the Ghost Part II
“MR. MORETTI, WE HAVE A RED CODE.”
Paulie’s frantic voice cut through the quiet hum of the air conditioner. I punched the speaker button with a scarred knuckle, my cold gray eyes locked on the forged sheet of paper in my hand. “Talk, Paulie. I’m looking at an unauthorized wire to an offshore holding company called Horizon Maritime.”
“It’s not just one wire, Boss,” Paulie choked out, the rattle of keyboards audible in the background. “I just pulled the quarterly sub-ledgers after the flag you asked for. Someone has been running ghost accounts for seven months. Small fractions routed into dummy construction permits, culminating in three bulk wires this week. Over thirty-eight million dollars has been cleared out of the reserve accounts.”
My body went rigid. Thirty-eight million dollars didn’t just vanish from the Moretti syndicate without high-level administrative clearance. “Who authorized the routing keys?”
There was a long, terrifying pause on the line. Even the paper shuffling stopped. “The digital signatures were stamped from the executive terminal on thirty-two. Senior Financial Director Daniel Russo.”
The office felt as cold as a morgue. Marco and Salvatore immediately ceased all amusement, their hands dropping instinctively to the grips of their weapons. Daniel Russo had been with me for twelve years. He was the man who kept our books clean when the feds came knocking, the man who sat at my Sunday dinner table, the man who had bought Emily her first silver rattle when her mother passed away. I had trusted him with the keys to the kingdom.
“Lock down the building elevators,” I ordered quietly, my voice dropping into that terrifying, flat register that signaled impending bloodshed. “Bring Daniel to my office. If he steps foot into the parking garage, put a bullet in his kneecaps.”
“Boss,” Paulie whispered, “Daniel clocked out forty minutes ago. He said he was going to verify a cargo manifest at Red Hook.”
A cold dread washed over my spine. He was running. Beside me on the wide desk, Emily had taken off her sunglasses. Her hazel eyes were wide and watery as she looked up at my hardened face. She reached out with her small fingers and gently tugged the rolled sleeve of my black dress shirt.
“Uncle Vinny?” she whispered, her lip trembling slightly. “Did I do something bad?”
Every ounce of violent fury in my chest halted. I couldn’t let the poison of my world touch this innocent child. She was the daughter of my fallen brother, the last piece of light left in my scarred life. I sank onto one knee beside the desk, bringing my face level with hers, and gently tucked a stray chestnut curl behind her ear.
“No, princess,” I said, keeping my tone as soft as velvet. “You did something incredible. You found something every grown man in this building was too blind to see. You saved all of us.”
A tiny, proud smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Because I’m the boss?”
“Because you’re the boss,” I agreed softly.
She beamed, then tapped her chin thoughtfully with one finger. “Uncle Vinny… there was one more thing inside the folder under the boring papers.”
I frowned. “What thing?”
Emily reached into the deep right pocket of my oversized jacket. Her little hand emerged clutching a folded piece of glossy paper. She held it out to me. “I took it because the lady in the picture had pretty hair like a princess.”
I unfolded the photo with numb fingers. The air was violently sucked out of my lungs. The photograph had been taken with a telephoto lens outside a small brick flower shop in Astoria. Standing in the center of the frame was Daniel Russo, handing an envelope to a woman in a beige trench coat. Her dark auburn hair was tied back, her profile etched with grief and exhaustion, but there was no mistaking the silver crescent birthmark along the curve of her neck.
It was Elena. Elena Vance. The woman I had loved more than my own life. The woman Daniel Russo had sworn to me died in a car bomb outside our Hamptons home five years ago—the woman whose charred locket I still kept locked inside my safe.
My vision blurred with raw shock. “Where did Daniel get this?” I muttered under my breath.
Emily leaned in closer, pointing her small finger at Elena’s face. “That’s funny.”
My throat closed up. “What’s funny, Emily?”
“That lady came to our house yesterday,” Emily said with total innocence. “While you were at the docks with the mean men. She was crying. And she gave me a present.”
Slowly, Emily dug into the hidden pocket of her purple princess dress. She pulled out a small, intricately carved silver key and pressed it into my shaking palm.
“She kissed my forehead,” Emily whispered, “and said you’d remember what it opens.”
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 3: The Silver Key and the Penthouse Music Box Part III
MY FINGERS CLUTCHED THE SILVER KEY so tightly the ornate filigree bit into my skin. I knew that key. I had bought it in an antique shop in Florence seven years ago for Elena’s twenty-fifth birthday. It was the key to an 18th-century Swiss music box—a heavy walnut heirloom that played Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat major. That music box sat on the vanity of our old penthouse suite on 5th Avenue, a room I had ordered boarded up and untouched since the night she supposedly perished in fire.
“Marco,” I barked, rising to my full height as an avalanche of rage and hope crashed through my veins. “Take four cars. Move Emily to the subterranean bunker at the Riverdale estate under maximum guard. If anyone approaches that gate without my personal retinal code, shoot through the windshield.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marco said, scooping Emily up into his burly arms. Emily waved at me over his broad shoulder, her little purple skirt swishing. “Don’t forget your lunch, Uncle Vinny!”
Within twelve minutes, Salvatore and I were speeding down FDR Drive in an armored Cadillac Escalade. Rain began to lash against the reinforced glass. Five years of suffocating grief, five years of pouring bourbon over a tombstone in St. Patrick’s Cemetery, flashed before my eyes like a sick hallucination. Daniel Russo had brought me the dental records. Daniel had wept on my shoulder at her funeral. Daniel had told me the rival Chicago outfit had planted the explosive under her sedan.
It had all been a fabrication.
We arrived at the 5th Avenue brownstone. The lobby doorman paled as I marched past without a word. I took the private elevator straight to the penthouse. The air inside smelled of dust, old lavender, and five years of frozen time. White dust sheets covered the grand piano and the velvet armchairs. I walked straight into Elena’s private dressing room, where the polished walnut music box sat atop the vanity table beneath a veil of gray dust.
My hand shook as I inserted the silver key into the miniature keyhole. I turned it clockwise. A soft, familiar mechanical click echoed through the room. The music box began to chime its gentle, melancholic melody. But instead of jewelry, the velvet false bottom had popped upward by half an inch.
Inside lay a black military-grade flash drive and a handwritten letter on personalized cream parchment, the ink fresh and unsmudged.
I snatched the letter. The handwriting was undeniably Elena’s:
“Vincent, my love. If you are reading this, Emily found the courage to give you the key. Forgive me for hiding. Five years ago, Daniel didn’t just plant the bomb—he pulled me from the car ten minutes before it detonated. He threatened to murder my entire family and execute your brother’s unborn child unless I vanished forever. He used offshore accounts to hold my sister hostage in Europe. But three months ago, my sister passed away from illness. His leverage died with her. I have spent the last ninety days gathering every bank wire, every shell company, and the audio recordings of Daniel selling your shipping routes to the Chicago syndicate. Tonight at midnight, Daniel is meeting the Chicago buyers at Pier 42 to transfer the remaining thirty-eight million and board a private tanker to Panama. If you still love me, Vincent… please come to the old greenhouse on 14th Street. He knows I am here. His men are hunting me right now.”
As I folded the letter, Salvatore kicked open the door, his submachine gun raised—the silent proximity alarm of our private perimeter had just been breached.
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 4: The Raid on the Queens Safehouse Part IV
“BOSS, LOOK AT THE TRAFFIC FEEDS!” Salvatore shouted, holding up a ruggedized tactical tablet. The screen displayed real-time surveillance of an abandoned brick greenhouse on the border of Queens and Brooklyn. Four black SUVs with tinted windows and cloned municipal plates had just surrounded the alleyway. Heavily armed men in tactical gear were deploying across the fire escapes.
“Daniel sent a cleanup crew,” I growled, racking the slide of my custom .45 Kimber. “He knows she went to my house yesterday. He knows his timeline has collapsed.”
We didn’t wait for backup. Salvatore floored the Escalade, tearing through red lights along the Queensboro Bridge at eighty miles an hour. My heart pounded against my ribs like a sledgehammer. Five years ago, I had failed to protect her. I had buried an empty casket and let guilt eat away my soul while a snake ate at my table. Not tonight. Not while I still drew breath.
We hit the alleyway behind the greenhouse like a battering ram. The Escalade’s reinforced steel bumper slammed directly into the rear flank of Daniel’s lead SUV, sending it spinning into an industrial dumpster with a deafening metallic crunch. Gunfire erupted immediately. High-caliber rounds pinged harmlessly against our armored windshield.
“Salvatore, suppress the alley! Nobody leaves this perimeter alive!”
I kicked open the heavy door and stepped into the storm. I moved with cold, mechanical precision—two rounds to the chest of the first shooter leaning around the dumpster, a snap shot to the rifleman on the fire escape ladder. The years of commanding New York’s underworld were not built on diplomacy; they were forged in blood and iron. Within thirty seconds, the outer perimeter fell dead silent except for the hiss of steam from a punctured radiator.
I kicked through the splintered rear door of the greenhouse. Broken glass crunched beneath my heavy boots. Overhead, overgrown ivy and wild ferns hung from shattered skylights, filtering the gray afternoon rain. And there, cornered behind a rusted cast-iron boiler, was Elena.
She was holding a small silver revolver with both hands, her knuckles white, her frame trembling. Her trench coat was stained with mud, her face pale and exhausted. But when her green eyes met mine through the mist, her weapon slowly lowered.
“Vincent…?” she whispered, her voice fracturing.
I crossed the distance between us in three long strides. Before she could utter another word, my large, tattooed hands framed her face, feeling the warmth of her skin, the real, undeniable pulse of blood in her veins. Five years of hell evaporated into the cold rain.
“You’re alive,” I rasped, pulling her against my chest. She collapsed into my arms, burying her face into my wool coat, sobbing as five years of terror broke loose. “I have you, Elena. I have you.”
Suddenly, the radio clipped to the vest of a dead hitman on the floor crackled to life with static.
“Team Alpha, report. Did you secure the flash drive? The tanker leaves Pier 42 in two hours. Eliminate Vance and burn the structure.”
It was Daniel Russo’s voice. Calm. Arrogant. Calculating.
I picked up the bloody transmitter, pressed the key, and spoke six words: “Daniel. Start running while you still can.”
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 5: The Butterfly Drawing and the Sugar Cookie Part V
A DEAD SILENCE HUNG OVER THE RADIO after my voice cut across the frequency. Then, with a frantic click, the connection severed. Daniel knew the devil was coming for him.
I brought Elena back to our Riverdale fortress under an escort of eight heavily armed vehicles. The estate was locked down tighter than Fort Knox, snipers positioned along the slate rooftops and electronic jammers blanketing the airspace. When we stepped through the reinforced mahogany doors of the foyer, a small blur of purple and pink came barreling down the grand staircase.
“Auntie Elena!” Emily squeaked, her patent-leather shoes slapping across the Italian marble. She didn’t hesitate. She threw her tiny arms straight around Elena’s knees, nearly knocking the exhausted woman over.
Elena dropped to her knees, her tears spilling freely as she scooped Emily into a fierce embrace. She buried her face in the little girl’s chestnut curls. “You gave him the key… you brave, beautiful girl. You saved us.”
“Of course I did,” Emily said matter-of-factly, pulling back to wipe a tear from Elena’s cheek with a sticky thumb. “I’m the boss, remember? And bosses protect their family.”
I stood above them, the heavy Glock holstered beneath my coat, watching the two women who held my entire universe in their hands. Elena reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a folded piece of yellow construction paper, smudged with purple crayon and cookie crumbs. She looked up at me with trembling lips.
“Yesterday, when I slipped past your gate guards to leave the key,” Elena whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “I didn’t plan on speaking to her. I was terrified Daniel’s watchers were on my tail. But she was sitting on the patio, eating sugar cookies with her nanny. When she saw me crying by the hedge, she didn’t scream. She walked over, handed me half her cookie, and drew this for me.”
I took the yellow paper. In crude purple crayon, Emily had drawn three figures standing under a lopsided red house: a tall, muscular man with ink on his arms, a little girl in a princess dress, and a woman with long hair and a smile. Beneath them, written in uneven kindergarten block letters, were the words: UNCLE VINNY’S WIFE IS NOT LOST. SHE IS JUST LATE FOR DINNER.
A knot seized my throat so tight I could barely breathe. For five years, I had believed Emily was too young to understand my grief. I thought she only saw me as a stern provider. But children see through every fortress we build around ourselves. She had seen the empty chair at the head of the table. She had seen the shadow in my eyes every time I walked past the piano.
“Daniel thought he could break us,” Elena said, her eyes flashing with a fierce, protective fire as she stood beside me, taking my hand. Her fingers laced through mine, small and defiant. “He thought if he stole your money and took your peace, you would tear your own empire apart. He never understood that loyalty isn’t bought on a ledger.”
Salvatore stepped into the hallway, his tactical tablet humming. “Boss. Daniel just pinged the harbor radar. He’s boarding the cargo freighter Odessa Star at Pier 42. He’s transferring the remaining forty million through satellite uplink right now.”
I kissed Emily’s forehead, handed her to her nanny, and turned toward the door—the time for mercy had expired.
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 6: The Midnight Trap at Wall Street Vault Part VI
AT 11:45 PM, PIER 42 WAS SHROUDED IN FREEZING FOG. The dark waters of the East River churned against the wooden pilings like liquid ink. Berthed at the end of the concrete wharf was the Odessa Star, a rusting three-hundred-foot Panamanian container vessel chartered under a shell corporation. Armed mercenaries in black fatigues patrolled the loading crane, their assault rifles slung across their chests.
Inside the ship’s master cabin, Daniel Russo stood over a ruggedized satellite terminal. He was sweating through his bespoke thousand-dollar shirt, his fingers flying across the encryption keyboard. On the screen, a digital progress bar flashed green: TRANSFERRING $38,400,000 TO GENEVA OFFSHORE TRUST — 89% COMPLETE.
“Faster, you piece of junk,” Daniel muttered, gnawing on his fingernail. He checked his gold Rolex. “Where is the harbor pilot? We need to clear international waters before dawn!”
“The pilot isn’t coming, Daniel.”
The quiet voice came from the dark corridor behind him. Daniel spun around so fast he knocked his scotch glass off the metal desk. The amber liquid splattered across the steel floorboards.
Standing in the bulkhead entrance was me. Behind me stood twenty heavily armed men of the Moretti inner guard, their rifles trained squarely on Daniel’s chest. The ship’s mercenaries were already lying disarmed and hog-tied on the lower deck without a single shot fired—because when Vincent Moretti takes a pier, the harbor police and coast guard are already looking the other way.
Daniel backed away until his spine hit the reinforced glass of the bridge window. His face was the color of curdled milk. “Vincent… listen to me. It’s not what you think. Chicago squeezed me! They threatened to kill me!”
I walked toward him slowly, the leather of my shoes clicking rhythmically against the steel decking. I didn’t pull my gun. I didn’t raise my voice. I took off my leather driving gloves one finger at a time and tossed them onto the console.
“Twelve years, Daniel,” I whispered. “I paid for your mother’s cancer treatment in Zurich. I gave you twenty percent of our legitimate commercial port profits. You held my niece when she was six months old and promised my dying brother you’d watch over her.”
“Vincent, please—”
“And you put a bomb under Elena’s car,” I continued, each word dropping like a lead weight. “You told me she was ashes. You watched me put flowers on an empty grave for five years while you bled my accounts dry to buy a throne in Chicago.”
Desperation twisted Daniel’s features into something ugly and rabid. Suddenly, he reached behind his back, whipped out a concealed subcompact pistol, and leveled it straight between my eyes. “Back off! I swear to God, Vincent, I’ll blow your brains across this cabin! You think you’re a king? You’re a dinosaur! The old ways are dead! The money is gone! It’s already in Switzerland!”
I didn’t flinch. I just reached out, touched the screen with one finger, and hit a single key that made Daniel’s jaw drop in horror.
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 7: Karmic Execution of a Traitor Part VII
ON THE SCREEN, THE PROGRESS BAR FROZE AT 99%. A flashing crimson skull replaced the wire manifest, followed by three bold words: TRANSACTION OVERRIDDEN BY MASTER KEY.
“What did you do?!” Daniel shrieked, his finger trembling wildly on the trigger of his pistol. “That’s impossible! Only I have the secondary cipher!”
“You had the secondary cipher,” I said coldly. “Emily had the master seal. The one you left under the billing files when you fled my office like a coward. And the flash drive Elena gave me? It didn’t just contain your wire logs. It contained a Trojan script written by my chief security officer that rerouted your Swiss trust directly into the New York Children’s Memorial Hospital endowment.”
Daniel’s eyes bulged with madness. “You gave thirty-eight million dollars to a charity?!”
“I don’t need stolen blood money to rule this city,” I said. “And neither does my family.”
With a wild scream of rage, Daniel tightened his grip on the gun to fire. But before his tendon could pull the trigger, my left hand shot out like an iron vice. I grabbed his wrist, twisted it inward with brutal force, and snapped the bone cleanly. The sound of cracking cartilage echoed through the cabin. The pistol clattered harmlessly to the deck as Daniel dropped to his knees, howling in agony and clutching his shattered arm.
I placed the heavy sole of my boot firmly onto his chest, pinning him against the steel deck. Outside, the night sky was suddenly illuminated by blinding blue and red strobe lights. Sirens wailed across the harbor. Four federal cutters and ten SWAT vans from the Manhattan District Attorney’s Organized Crime Division swarmed Pier 42.
“You called the feds?” Daniel gasped through his tears, blood dripping from his lip. “A mafia boss calling the feds? You broke the code!”
“I didn’t call them for my business,” I leaned down, my icy gray eyes burning into his soul. “I called them for yours. High treason, grand larceny, illegal arms trafficking, and the attempted assassination of federal witness Elena Vance. You aren’t going to a quiet grave, Daniel. You’re going to ADX Florence. You will spend twenty-three hours a day in an eight-by-ten concrete box, listening to your own heartbeat, knowing that the empire you tried to steal belongs to the little girl whose drawing you ignored.”
FBI Special Agent Miller led the tactical team onto the bridge, zip-cuffs ready. He looked at me, then down at Daniel. “We have the flash drive files verified, Moretti. He’s going away for three consecutive life sentences.”
I turned my back on the screaming traitor and walked off the ship into the cool morning air—dawn was finally breaking over Manhattan.
↑ Back to Top
Chapter 8: The Real Boss of the Moretti Empire Part VIII
ONE WEEK LATER, THE MORNING SUNLIGHT poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my 34th-floor executive office, warming the polished mahogany desk. The tension and violence that had shadowed this room for half a decade had vanished, replaced by the sweet aroma of fresh cinnamon pastries and hot espresso.
Sitting in my leather executive chair once again was Emily.
She had relinquished my oversized wool jacket, but she was still rocking the dark sunglasses over her bright hazel eyes, wearing a brand-new lavender princess dress with white lace trim. In her lap was her pink butterfly notebook, her tiny fingers clutching a glittery gold pen.
Standing in front of her desk, with our hands politely folded, were Elena and me.
“Attention, employees!” Emily announced, clearing her throat with immense dignity. She lowered her sunglasses just enough to peer over the rims at us. “It is time for your weekly performance review.”
Elena couldn’t hold back a musical laugh, squeezing my arm affectionately. She looked radiant. The color had returned to her cheeks, her hair falling softly past her shoulders, and on her left hand glittered the platinum engagement ring I had slipped onto her finger three nights ago beneath the stars at Riverdale.
“We are listening, Boss,” I said, keeping my face as stern and respectful as possible.
Emily flipped a page in her notebook. “First, Auntie Elena. You get an A-plus for making strawberry pancakes and letting me stay up fifteen minutes past bedtime.”
“Thank you, Boss,” Elena curtsied gracefully.
“Second, Uncle Vinny.” Emily narrowed her eyes, tapping the pen against her chin. “Your coffee still smells like angry water. BUT… you ate a turkey sandwich yesterday. And you smiled twice. So you are not fired.”
“I am deeply honored,” I replied, bowing my head.
“However,” Emily stood up on the chair, puffing out her chest, “we need new company rules. Rule number one: No more yelling at anyone. Rule number two: We always eat Sunday dinner together with extra ice cream. And rule number three…”
She paused dramatically, took off her sunglasses, and opened her arms wide. “The boss needs to be carried to the park right now!”
I didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat. I stepped forward, reached across the desk, and scooped the four-year-old girl high into the air. Emily squealed with pure, bubbling delight, throwing her arms around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder. Elena wrapped her arms around both of us, resting her forehead against mine.
For years, I believed power came from fear, from the weight of cold steel and the silence that followed my name. But as Emily’s small hand patted my scarred cheek and Elena’s warm smile filled the room, I knew the truth. My empire was no longer built on shadows and secrets.
It was built right here, held together by the little girl who dared to wear my suit.
↑ Back to Top
Trending Viral Stories • Keep Reading
Readers who loved Vincent & Emily couldn’t stop reading these blockbusters:
