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

I didn't go to the sub-basement.

I couldn't.

Because as soon as Lorenzo slipped out into the second-floor corridor, I heard the distinctive sound of heavy boots echoing up through the very laundry chute he had told me to use.

Marco’s men were sweeping the basement with dogs.

The muffled baying of a German Shepherd echoed through the metal vents, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

*“Over here!”* someone shouted from the lower levels. *“The potting bench was moved! There’s an iron ring in the floor!”*

They had found the trapdoor.

Within minutes, they would realize the tunnel connected to the mansion’s foundation. They would swarm the upper floors from both directions.

I grabbed Emma, wrapped her tightly in my apron, and sprinted down the opposite hallway toward the chapel gallery.

The private chapel was situated at the western end of the estate—a magnificent, stone-walled cathedral built in the Italian Gothic style, complete with towering stained glass windows, rows of dark oak pews, and a massive crucifix suspended above the marble altar.

I slipped behind the heavy velvet tapestry on the second-floor landing, stepping into the narrow choir loft that overlooked the entire sanctuary.

Below us, the memorial service had already begun.

More than fifty high-ranking members of the syndicate filled the pews. Every man was dressed in tailored black suits; their bodyguards lined the outer aisles with hands resting near their armpits.

At the front of the altar stood an empty, polished mahogany casket surrounded by hundreds of white lilies and flickering beeswax candles.

Beside the casket stood Vittoria.

She looked radiant in her mourning veil, weeping delicate, silent tears as a priest in golden vestments murmured prayers in Latin.

Sitting in the front-row pew directly across from her was Dante. His arms were crossed over his massive chest, his jaw set like granite, his eyes watching Vittoria’s every move with razor-sharp suspicion.

Standing behind Dante, lingering in the shadows of the arched pillars, was Marco.

Marco had his right hand slipped inside his suit jacket. Two other guards in trench coats were slowly closing the distance behind Dante’s personal security detail.

They were getting into position for the kill.

Suddenly, a door creaked at the back of the choir loft.

I froze, pulling Emma behind a marble pillar.

A man stepped into the loft.

It was one of Marco’s enforcers, holding an assault rifle, scanning the balcony for snipers. He hadn't seen me yet, but his boots were tracking directly toward the pillar where Emma and I were hiding.

Emma opened her mouth to speak.

I clapped my hand over her lips, my heart hammering so hard I thought my ribs would crack.

The guard took another step. His shadow fell across my shoes.

Suddenly, a dark figure materialized out of the shadows behind him like a phantom.

A gloved hand clamped around the guard’s mouth, cutting off his breath instantly. A knee drove hard into the small of his back, and a sharp, muffled *crack* echoed through the stone archway.

The guard went limp.

Lorenzo lowered the body silently to the carpeted floor.

He looked at me, his eyes blazing in the dim light of the choir loft. He didn't ask why I hadn't gone to the basement; he saw the terror on my face and understood immediately that the escape route was cut off.

He stepped over the body, pulled the suppressed Beretta from his waistband, and walked to the edge of the carved wooden railing overlooking the altar below.

Down in the sanctuary, the priest finished his prayer and made the sign of the cross.

Vittoria stepped up to the pulpit.

She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion as it amplified through the chapel’s sound system.

“My friends… family… brothers of the Duca name,” Vittoria began, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “Today, we mourn not only a leader, but my beloved brother. Lorenzo was a man of unyielding strength. But in his absence, the wolves are gathering at our gates. The Morettis believe we are weak. They believe we are divided.”

Behind Dante, Marco took half a step forward, his fingers tightening around the grip of his concealed firearm.

“To protect this family,” Vittoria continued, her voice rising with dramatic authority, “I have agreed to assume the mantle of leadership. With the blessing of the council, I will unite our territories and finish the war my brother started!”

Several Capos in the middle rows began to nod.

Dante didn't move. He remained seated, staring at her with cold contempt.

“And you, Dante?” Vittoria asked, turning her gaze directly upon him. “Will you bend the knee to honor my brother’s memory? Or must the family move forward without you?”

Dante slowly stood up.

He towered over the men around him, his presence commanding absolute silence across the sanctuary.

“I took an oath to Lorenzo Duca,” Dante said, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling. “Not to his sister. And certainly not to a woman who smells of Moretti perfume.”

A collective gasp swept through the pews. Men reached for their weapons.

Marco pulled his silver Sig Sauer from beneath his coat, raising the barrel directly toward the back of Dante’s head.

“Die, old man,” Marco hissed.

From the choir loft above, Lorenzo leaned over the railing.

*“MARCO!”*

The voice didn't sound human. It sounded like thunder ripping through a tomb.

Every single head in the chapel snapped upward.

Marco froze, his eyes widening in pure, unadulterated terror as he looked up into the choir loft.

Lorenzo stood illuminated by the morning sunlight piercing through the stained glass window of Saint Michael the Archangel—bloodstained, pale, his black shirt open at the collar, holding a pistol aimed directly downward.

“Look at me,” Lorenzo snarled.

*PUP.*

The suppressed gunshot sounded like a heavy whip crack.

A red mist exploded from Marco’s forehead.

The traitor collapsed backward across the marble steps of the altar, his gun clattering across the stone floor.