2At 9:17 P.M., I was the only waitress brave enough to approach table four, where Boston's most feared mafia boss was slowly dying in front of everyone.

The armored convoy didn't stop until we passed through towering, wrought-iron security gates nestled high in the coastal bluffs north of the city.

The estate was hidden behind ten-foot stone walls topped with razor wire and high-definition thermal cameras. Dense pine forests choked both sides of the private, winding driveway, effectively isolating the property from any neighboring estates. When the trees finally parted, a massive, limestone mansion rose against the stormy Atlantic horizon like an ancient, impenetrable fortress.

Dozens of armed men patrolled the grounds, carrying assault rifles and wearing tactical vests bearing no insignia. Floodlights bathed the perimeter in daylight brightness.

The Escalade pulled into a cavernous, subterranean motor pool beneath the mansion. The moment the engine cut out, the heavy blast doors rolled shut behind us with a mechanical groan that sounded like the closing of a tomb.

"Out," Dominic said gently, extending a hand to help me down from the high seat.

My legs were shaking so violently I nearly collapsed the moment my shoes hit the polished concrete floor. Dominic caught me effortlessly by the elbows, stabilizing me with a grip that was surprisingly tender despite his immense strength.

"I've got you," he murmured, echoing the exact words I had spoken to him on the floor of *L’Aura d’Or*.

A man in a charcoal suit, with silvering hair and a thin, severe face, walked briskly toward us across the motor pool. He carried a leather dossier tucked under his arm, his cold eyes assessing me with immediate, undisguised suspicion.

"Dominic," the older man said, his voice clipped and precise. "You shouldn't have brought her here."

Dominic didn't release his hold on my arm. "Enzo, this is Chloe Henderson. Chloe, this is Enzo Rossi, my consigliere and senior advisor. He worries for a living."

"I worry because your survival determines whether this family maintains control of the Eastern Seaboard or descends into a three-way civil war," Enzo replied sharply, stepping directly in front of us. "The apartment was a coordinated strike. The hit team was composed of ex-mercenaries from a private Balkan security contractor. That kind of operational budget doesn't come from a disgraced restaurant manager, Dominic. It comes from the High Council."

Enzo then turned his predatory gaze onto me. "And bringing an unknown civilian into our primary safehouse violates every protocol we have had in place for twenty years. She could be an asset. She could have been planted."

Anger—hot and sudden—cut through my fear.

"I was polishing forks six days ago, Mr. Rossi," I snapped, pulling myself out of Dominic’s grip and standing tall. "If I wanted Dominic dead, all I had to do was stand by the dessert station and watch him turn blue. Don't flatter your protocols at the expense of common sense."

Enzo’s eyes widened slightly in cold surprise. Very few people, it seemed, ever spoke to him with anything less than abject terror.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of Dominic’s mouth. "She has a point, Enzo. Stand down."

"The Council is already demanding an emergency conclave for tomorrow night," Enzo warned, his jaw tightening. "They know you survived the poison. Now they know the safe-house extraction team failed. If you show weakness—"

"I will deal with the Council tomorrow," Dominic interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. "Right now, Miss Henderson needs a physician to examine her for injuries, a change of clothes, and a secure room. Prepare the guest suite on the third floor. Marco, you will personally post two men at her door. No one enters without my express authorization."

"Understood, Boss," Marco nodded from behind us.

Dominic turned back to me. The harshness in his eyes seemed to dissipate when he looked at my soot-stained face. "Come. Let's get you cleaned up."

He led me through a private elevator into the main house. The interior of the Romano estate was breathtaking, yet chillingly devoid of warmth. Soaring ceilings, Italian marble floors, museum-grade Renaissance oil paintings depicting bloody biblical battles, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the raging, black Atlantic waves crashing against the rocks far below. It was a palace built for a king who trusted no one and expected war at every sunrise.

We reached the third floor, where a spacious suite waited. It contained a king-sized bed draped in Egyptian cotton, a roaring stone fireplace, and a bathroom larger than my entire burned apartment.

An elderly man with silver-rimmed spectacles and a black medical bag was already waiting inside.

"Dr. Charles," Dominic introduced him. "Ensure she has no concussions or lacerations from the glass."

The doctor bowed respectfully. "Of course, Mr. Romano."

Dominic paused at the threshold of the door. He looked at me, his slate eyes lingering on mine for a long, heavy moment.

"You're safe here, Chloe. Try to rest. We will talk in the morning."

"Dominic?" I called out softly before he could leave.

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Thank you... for saving my mother's box," I whispered, clutching the carved wood securely against my chest.

A flicker of something raw and deeply human passed through his guarded expression. He gave a single, quiet nod. "Get some sleep, Chloe."

The doctor examined me thoroughly, bandaging a minor cut on my forearm where a shard of glass had grazed me, and handed me two mild sedatives. A maid brought up clean silk loungewear and a tray of warm chicken broth and fresh bread.

I ate mechanically, staring into the flickering embers of the stone fireplace.

I couldn't sleep. The moment I closed my eyes, I saw the muzzle flashes in the rain. I saw the blood running from Dominic's nose. I saw Richard's venomous glare.

At 2:00 A.M., unable to bear the quiet suffocating walls of the suite, I pulled on a heavy cashmere robe that had been left for me and opened the heavy oak door.

Two armed guards stood outside, snapping to attention instantly.

"Miss Henderson," the left guard said respectfully. "Do you require something?"

"I... I just need some fresh air," I said. "Is there a balcony or an open hallway?"

"The south gallery terrace is secure," he said, tapping his comms to alert the perimeter before escorting me down the long, carpeted corridor.

The gallery was a wide hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling arched windows overlooking the rocky coast. At the far end of the hall, double French doors stood slightly ajar, letting in the brisk, salty ocean air.

I walked toward the opening, wrapping the robe tightly around my shivering frame.

As I approached the doors, the sound of low, tense voices drifted from the study adjacent to the terrace.

"We pulled the phone records from Richard's burner device," Enzo’s harsh whisper echoed through the mahogany door. "The payment was wired from an offshore shell corporation based in Cyprus. But the local authorization didn't come from the Moretti syndicate, Dominic."

A heavy silence followed.

"Say it, Enzo," Dominic’s voice commanded, cold as arctic ice.

"The authorization originated from within our own inner circle," Enzo revealed, his voice shaking with suppressed dread. "The distributor who supplied your vintage Barolo to *L’Aura d’Or* was cleared directly by one of your four lieutenants on the High Council. There is a traitor at the table, Dominic. And if you sit with them tomorrow night without knowing who it is, you are walking straight into an execution."

I stopped dead in my tracks, my breath catching in my throat.

A traitor inside his own family.