My three-year-old daughter found mafia boss Lorenzo Duca bleeding beneath his own mansion—and while armed men searched the grounds to finish the job, she pressed a cartoon bandage to his face and whispered, “Shh

The narrow passage wound upward through the foundation of the ninety-year-old estate, winding between bedrock and ancient support pillars. Lorenzo moved with agonizing slowness, each step sending a jolt of pain through his packed abdominal wound. Twice, he had to brace himself against the damp stone wall, his breathing turning into a ragged wheeze, but he refused to let me support him.

The man was running on pure venom and vengeance.

Ten minutes later, we reached a vertical iron ladder embedded in the brickwork. Above it was a square oak panel.

Lorenzo looked up, listening intently.

Silence.

He climbed the first three rungs, his knuckles trembling with strain, and pressed his ear against the wood. After thirty seconds of complete stillness, he slid a brass lever hidden in the brick.

The panel swung inward with a silent, oiled click.

A rush of warm air hit us—scented with lavender polish, beeswax, and expensive leather.

The master dressing room.

Lorenzo pulled himself through the opening, rolling onto the plush Persian rug with a suppressed grunt of agony. I lifted Emma up through the hatch, climbing up immediately behind her and pulling the false floorboard back into place.

The room was pitch-black except for the moonlight filtering through the heavy velvet drapes of the adjacent bedroom.

Everything was immaculate. Tailored suits hung in silent rows inside glass-fronted wardrobes. Lorenzo crawled toward the antique oak desk in the corner, dragging his injured leg. He pulled open a hidden compartment beneath the desk blotter, revealing a heavy encrypted radio transceiver.

He flicked the switch.

Nothing happened.

The green LED power indicator remained dead.

Lorenzo tore the panel off the bottom of the device. The battery pack had been neatly sliced through with wire cutters. The copper wires hung loose, dead and useless.

“Marco,” Lorenzo whispered, his voice dripping with venom. “He sanitized the entire wing before they made their move.”

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany door to the master bedroom clicked.

*Footsteps.*

Light spilled across the floorboards from the hallway as someone entered the outer room.

“Quick,” I hissed, grabbing Lorenzo’s shoulder and pulling him toward the deep shadow of the walk-in wardrobe.

We slipped behind a rack of heavy wool overcoats just as the dressing room door swung open.

The overhead chandelier blazed to life.

Through the narrow slit between two black cashmere coats, I saw Vittoria Duca.

She was no longer wearing the black dress from earlier. She had changed into a stunning, custom-tailored charcoal mourning suit with pearl buttons. Her hair was styled in an elegant chignon, not a single strand out of place.

Behind her walked a younger maid—Sophia, a girl I had trained three months ago.

Sophia was carrying a silver tray containing a fresh pot of coffee, a porcelain cup, and a stack of crisp morning newspapers.

“Leave it on the desk, Sophia,” Vittoria said smoothly, walking over to the full-length mirror. She inspected her reflection, adjusting the pearl necklace around her throat with delicate fingers. “And make sure the ballroom is unlocked. The floral arrangements will begin arriving at six.”

“Yes, Miss Vittoria,” Sophia said nervously. “Is… is there any news from the search teams? About the Don?”

Vittoria let out a soft, theatrical sigh, her hand rising to touch her heart.

“Marco found his coat near the river rapids,” she said, her voice filled with a sickeningly sweet sorrow. “The current is treacherous this time of year. We have to prepare ourselves for the worst, Sophia. My poor brother… he was so reckless with his security. He never understood that power attracts wolves.”

Behind the coats, Lorenzo’s hand hovered an inch from the Beretta in his waistband. I could feel the heat radiating from his skin—the fever was setting in, his temperature spiking as his body fought the trauma of the gunshot wound.

If he moved now, if he made a sound, Sophia would scream, Vittoria would call Marco, and we would be trapped in a closet with nowhere to run.

I reached out in the dark and caught Lorenzo’s wrist.

I squeezed it with everything I had, staring into his fever-bright eyes through the gloom, shaking my head violently. *Not yet.*

Vittoria walked toward the wardrobe.

My heart stopped beating.

Her high heels clicked against the hardwood floor with agonizing deliberation. *Clack. Clack. Clack.*

She stopped directly in front of the rack of coats where we were hiding. Her slender, manicured hand reached out, brushing against the sleeve of the very coat concealing my face.

Emma was in my arms. If my three-year-old made a single peep—if she sneezed, if she whimpered, if she dropped her toy bunny—it was over.

Emma stared up at me through the darkness. She saw the terror in my eyes.

With incredible presence of mind that no three-year-old should ever have to possess, she jammed her own thumb into her mouth and pressed her face flat against my chest, squeezing her eyes shut so hard her little eyelashes trembled.

Vittoria’s hand paused on the fabric.

“Miss Vittoria?” Sophia called from the desk. “Marco is on the phone. He says the Capos from the South Side have just passed the outer security gate.”

Vittoria pulled her hand back from the coat.

“Tell him I’ll be down immediately,” she said, her voice instantly hardening from grieving sister to ruthless warlord. “And tell him to keep Dante separated from the others. If Dante smells anything wrong, I want him detained in the cellar before the meeting begins.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The dressing room lights clicked off.

The door shut. The lock turned.

Silence returned to the master suite.

Lorenzo slumped against the back wall of the closet, sliding down until his knees hit the floor. His head fell back against a row of silk ties, his breathing dangerously fast and shallow.

“Lorenzo!” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him.

I touched his forehead. He was burning up.

“The infection…” I muttered, checking the dressing on his abdomen. The white gauze was already soaked through with dark, sticky fluids. The wound was going septic. Without intravenous broad-spectrum antibiotics and sterile wound debridement, he wouldn't survive the next twelve hours, let alone take back his empire.

“The infirmary,” Lorenzo whispered, his eyelids fluttering. “Ground floor… north wing. My father kept a fully stocked surgical suite… for wounded men who couldn’t go to the hospital.”

“The north wing is right next to the ballroom where the Capos are arriving,” I said, panic rising in my throat. “The corridors are crawling with guards.”

Lorenzo opened his eyes, staring at me with terrifying intensity.