The Feared Chicago Mafia Boss Stepped Out of the Dark West Wing — Until a Three-Year-Old Girl in a Pink Dress Dared to Play Tag With Him

Before Adrien could summon his enforcers, the heavy mahogany doors of the executive office swung open without a knock.

Stepping into the room was Marcus, Adrien’s most trusted senior underboss and head of internal security. Marcus wore a sharp grey suit, a smug, arrogant smirk plastered across his face.

"Boss, we have a security breach in the West Wing," Marcus stated smoothly, entirely unaware of the open dossier on the desk. "A maid’s brat was wandering around your private quarters. I’ve already ordered the cleanup crew to take care of the mother and child so they don't compromise our operations."

The entire room went dead silent.

Clara gasped, clinging to the edge of the desk in sheer terror.

Adrien didn't yell. He didn't smash a glass. He slowly walked around the mahogany desk, his immaculate black three-piece suit rustling softly as he closed the distance between himself and his head of security.

"You ordered a cleanup crew... on my daughter?" Adrien whispered. His voice was so dangerously quiet, so devoid of life, that Marcus suddenly stopped in his tracks, the smug smirk sliding off his face.

"Your... your daughter?" Marcus stammered, his eyes darting toward the terrified maid. "Boss, I didn't know—"

"You didn't know," Adrien interrupted, his intense gray eyes locking onto the traitor with the deadliness of a striking viper. "Just like you 'didn't know' about the cartel ambush five years ago that forced her into hiding. Just like you 'didn't know' about the financial leaks draining our shipping ports."