The Poor Maid Punched The Mafia Boss To Save His Life—What He Did Next Changed Her Life Forever

The gala was a suffocating game of smiles and veiled threats. Norah played her part flawlessly, nodding at polite conversation, sipping champagne she barely tasted, and keeping her cast hidden beneath the drape of her tailored jacket.

Daniel never left her side. His hand remained firmly planted on the small of her back, a constant, burning reminder of the dangerous role she was playing.

After two hours, the overwhelming noise and tension finally broke her.

"I need to use the restroom," Norah whispered, leaning close to Daniel.

He frowned, his protective instincts flaring. "I'll have Carmine clear it and stand guard."

"Daniel, please," she murmured. "I just need two minutes alone to breathe. I'm suffocating."

He studied her face, seeing the genuine exhaustion behind her confident mask. He nodded slowly. "Two minutes. If you aren't out by then, I'm coming in."

Norah walked swiftly through the crowded room toward the marble-lined restrooms in the back corridor. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and leaned against the sink, exhaling a long, shaking breath. She looked at her reflection. She barely recognized the polished, wealthy woman staring back at her.

The bathroom door clicked shut, the deadbolt sliding into place with a sharp snap.

Norah spun around.

Standing in front of the door was a tall, strikingly beautiful woman in a blood-red evening gown. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, but her eyes were cold and calculating.

"You aren't an art appraiser from the East Coast," the woman said, her voice dripping with venomous amusement.

Norah froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Excuse me?"

The woman took a slow step forward, her high heels clicking loudly against the marble tile. "I know everyone in the East Coast elite. You don't exist. You're a ghost. Which means Daniel is lying."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Norah said, trying to keep her voice steady as she reached behind her, searching for a weapon.

"My name is Isabella Falcone," the woman sneered, stopping a few feet away. "Dominic is my father. He might be fooled by a pretty face and a big diamond, but I am not. I know Daniel’s tells. He doesn't love you. This is a play."

Isabella reached into her small, jewel-encrusted clutch and pulled out a sleek, suppressed handgun, aiming it directly at Norah’s chest.

"And if Daniel doesn't love you," Isabella smiled maliciously, "he won't start a war over a dead fake fiancé, will he?"

Norah’s mind raced. The bathroom was soundproof. The gun was suppressed. If Isabella pulled the trigger, no one would hear a thing until it was too late.

"You shoot me, and Daniel will tear your entire family apart," Norah warned, forcing every ounce of authority she had learned from Daniel into her voice.

"Daniel is weak," Isabella spat. "He should have died by that window yesterday."

Isabella’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Norah didn't hesitate. She didn't have a gun, but she had a cast made of solid fiberglass.