I came home early and nearly fired the young maid I found sitting on my kitchen floor, making my three daughters laugh for the first time since their mother was murdered. But before I could throw her out, my eldest daughter grabbed my coat, looked me straight in the eyes, and spoke her first words in fourteen months: “Daddy killed Mommy.”

Two weeks passed.

The Russo estate had transformed. The cold, sterile gloom that had hung over the property for fourteen months was gone, replaced by the sounds of children’s laughter, barking golden retriever puppies I had bought for the girls, and the smell of fresh baking from the kitchen.

All three of my daughters were talking again. Mia was singing nursery rhymes in the garden; Valentina was asking a hundred questions a day; and Lucia was sitting beside me in my study every evening, drawing pictures of our family.

Elena was no longer wearing her gray maid’s apron. She lived in the guest suite on the second floor, acting as the girls’ private guardian and companion.

To the outside world, Dominic Russo was back in control.

District Attorney Marcus Croft had resigned from office citing “health reasons” after my legal team released evidence of his secret offshore bank accounts in the Cayman Islands. The Moretti syndicate had retreated into Chinatown, crippled by the loss of their primary enforcers.

But I knew the war wasn't over.

The man who had ordered the hit on Isabella fourteen months ago wasn't Don Morello, and it wasn't Marcus Croft.

It was someone higher up in the New York political hierarchy—someone who had used the Mendozas and the Morettis as front men to try and take over my legitimate logistics and shipping empire.

Tonight was the annual Manhattan Business Leadership Gala at the Waldorf Astoria—the biggest gathering of elite wealth, political power, and underworld influence on the East Coast.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dressing room, adjusting the black silk bowtie of my tuxedo.

A soft knock sounded on the open door.

I turned around.

Elena was standing in the doorway, and for a moment, my breath completely left my lungs.

She was wearing an emerald-green floor-length silk gown that Rosa had ordered for her from a boutique in Fifth Avenue. Her dark blonde hair was swept up into an elegant chignon, revealing her long, slender neck. A simple diamond pendant—one that had belonged to my late mother—hung between her collarbones.

She looked breathtaking. Regal, composed, and utterly radiant.

“Is this... too much?” Elena asked nervously, looking down at the silk gown, her hands smoothing the fabric over her hips. “Rosa insisted I come with you as your guest. She said you shouldn't go to the gala alone.”

I walked over to her slowly, stopping two inches away. The scent of vanilla and fresh jasmine wafted from her skin.

“You look extraordinary, Elena,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, quiet register.

She looked up into my eyes, her cheeks flushing warm. “I’m nervous, Dominic. I’ve never been to a place like that. What if I say something wrong?”

I reached out, gently lifting her chin with my thumb, feeling the soft warmth of her skin.

“You survived a monster in Brooklyn,” I murmured, looking down into her light blue eyes. “A room full of politicians in expensive suits is nothing compared to you.”

A faint, beautiful smile touched her lips. “When you put it that way...”

“Ready?” I offered her my arm.

She placed her small hand over my forearm, her touch sent a warm current straight to my heart.

“Ready,” she whispered.

We walked down the grand staircase together toward the waiting armored Maybach in the driveway.

As the car pulled out through the iron gates into the autumn night, I looked at Elena’s profile against the passing city lights.