Mafia boss Christopher Delacroix believed the young maid working inside his mansion was there for one reason, to clean the house, until he came home early one day and found her crying beside his dying mother, carefully shaving away the last strands of her hair.

The transformation inside the Delacroix mansion over the next seventy-two hours was radical.

Hannah was moved from the tiny servant’s quarters on the third floor into the master guest suite on the second floor, directly across the hall from my mother’s bedroom—and three doors down from mine. I assigned four of my most loyal personal bodyguards, men who answered exclusively to me and not the syndicate council, to guard her door around the clock.

The staff was bewildered. Rumors spread like wildfire among the groundskeepers and kitchen staff that Christopher Delacroix had taken a sudden, scandalous interest in the quiet maid.

I didn't bother correcting them. In my world, letting people believe I was infatuated with a woman was far less dangerous than letting them know she held the key to an internal civil war.

On Friday morning, I entered my mother’s suite.

The heavy, dark curtains had been drawn back, allowing the pale autumn sunlight to flood the room. A vase of fresh yellow chrysanthemums sat on the vanity. Classical music played softly from a speaker in the corner.

Florence was sitting up in bed, propped by pillows. She was wearing a soft cashmere sweater instead of a hospital gown, and on her lap was a photo album. Sitting on the edge of the mattress beside her was Hannah, dressed in a simple, elegant dark blue sweater and jeans I had ordered for her from Manhattan.

When I stepped through the door, Florence looked up. The hollow, defeated look that had haunted her for eight months had softened.

“Christopher,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. “Come here.”

I walked over, feeling oddly out of place in my dark charcoal three-piece suit. I stood beside the bed, looking down at the open album. It was filled with old black-and-white photos of Florence in her youth, alongside pictures of me as a boy playing on the estate lawns.

Next to one of the photos was a picture of a broad-shouldered man with a warm, easy smile, holding a little girl with twin pigtails on his shoulders.

David Vance. And Hannah.

“Your father loved David like a brother,” Florence said softly, tracing the glossy photograph. “And Silas hated David because David had something Silas could never buy: honor.”

I glanced at Hannah. She was looking at the picture of her father, her eyes misty with fond nostalgia rather than sorrow.

“We’re going to set it right, Mother,” I said, my voice steady and resolute. “I’ve already initiated an independent forensic audit of all syndicate holdings managed by Silas’s sector over the last fifteen years. By Monday, we will have unassailable proof of his embezzlement and his ties to the car bombing that killed Vance.”

Before Florence could reply, the door to the suite opened.

Franco, my chief of personal security, stepped into the room. His expression was grim. He didn't look at the women; he looked directly at me.

“Boss,” Franco said in a low tone. “We have a problem downstairs. Silas is here.”

The atmosphere in the room instantly turned to ice.

Hannah stiffened, her hands clenching into fists on her lap. Florence’s breath hitched, her fingers digging instinctively into the bedspread.

“What does he want?” I asked calmly, straightening my cuffs.

“He claims it’s an urgent syndicate matter regarding the Brooklyn port shipments,” Franco replied. “He brought four of his senior capos with him. They’re waiting in the grand foyer. And Boss... he asked why the household payroll records showed a sudden termination of the third-floor housekeeping staff, and why high-end civilian clothes were delivered to the west wing under an assumed account.”

Silas’s network was efficient. The snake was already sniffing around the perimeter.

“Stay here,” I said to Hannah and Florence. “Both of you. Franco, lock this entire wing down. If anyone tries to enter without my direct vocal authorization, put a bullet through their skull.”

“Understood, Boss.”

I turned to leave, but a small hand grabbed my sleeve.

I stopped and looked down. Hannah was staring up at me, her hazel eyes wide with a mixture of fear and urgent warning.

“He’s dangerous, Christopher,” she whispered, using my first name for the first time. It sent an unexpected jolt through my chest. “My mother told me before she died... Silas doesn't fight like a man. He strikes in the dark. Be careful.”

I looked down at her hand on my sleeve, then met her gaze. For a fleeting second, the ruthless Don vanished, replaced by a man desperate to prove he was worthy of the trust she was tentatively offering.