My three-year-old daughter walked straight up to Lorenzo Duca, the most feared man in Chicago, and asked him for a five-minute hug because she wanted to know what having a father felt like.

By morning, the Duca estate was a war zone of luxury and heightened security.

Before seven o’clock, three black vans had arrived from the city’s most exclusive department stores. Personal shoppers unloaded racks of cashmere dresses, tiny leather boots, coats lined with faux fur, and hundreds of toys. Sofie sat on the living room rug, her eyes the size of saucers, surrounded by a mountain of stuffed animals, while two armed guards awkwardly took turns helping her assemble a plastic tea set.

I stood by the grand bay window, wearing a tailored cream-colored sweater and slacks that Mrs. Higgins had brought to my new guest suite on the second floor.

I was no longer wearing the maid’s uniform.

“You haven’t touched your coffee,” Lorenzo’s voice rumbled behind me.

I turned. He was dressed in a sharp charcoal suit, fresh and impeccably groomed, though the dark circles under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept a wink.

“I feel like I’m trapped in an illusion,” I admitted quietly. “Yesterday, I was scrubbing the kitchen tiles and calculating if I had enough money to buy milk and antibiotics for Sofie’s ear infection. Today, she’s being treated like an heiress, and I have three men with submachine guns standing outside my bedroom door.”

Lorenzo stepped closer, closing the distance until I could feel the heat radiating from him.

“She isn’t being treated like an heiress, Clara. She *is* the heiress.” He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing the cuff of my sleeve. “And you are the mother of my child. Everything that belongs to me is yours.”

“It’s not that simple, Lorenzo. You have enemies. The Morettis... the families in New York... and whoever killed Julian.”

Lorenzo’s eyes turned to ice. “Sal is already reviewing the surveillance tapes from the week Julian died. We’ve discovered three encrypted phone calls placed from within this house right before his car was rigged. Someone inside my inner circle sold my brother out. And whoever it was, they did it because they thought Julian was the weak link.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping into a protective, possessive whisper.

“They don’t know about Sofie yet. I have kept the staff on lockdown. The only people who know the DNA results are in this house. But secrets in Chicago have a short shelf life. When the syndicate finds out that the cold, ruthless Lorenzo Duca has a three-year-old weakness... they will come for her.”

“Then let me take her away,” I pleaded, clutching his lapels. “We can go to Oregon, or Canada. You can wire us money, Lorenzo! You don’t have to keep us here in the crosshairs!”

Lorenzo grabbed my wrists, pulling me flush against his chest. His heart was beating with a slow, thunderous rhythm.

“I let you slip away once because I was out of my mind with fever and didn’t remember who saved my life,” he said, his blue eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable passion. “I will burn this entire city to ash before I let you walk out of my sight again. You and Sofie belong here. With me. Under my protection.”

Before I could reply, the heavy doors of the foyer burst open.

A voice, slick and oily, echoed across the marble tiles.

“Lorenzo! What is this nonsense Sal told me about the estate being on total perimeter lockdown? We have a shipment coming through the docks at midnight, and your guards are treating the front lawn like Normandy!”

Lorenzo let go of my wrists, his posture instantly snapping into that of a lethal warlord.

“Matteo,” Lorenzo said, stepping in front of me to shield me from view.

I peeked over his shoulder.

Standing in the entryway was Matteo Vieri—Lorenzo’s cousin and the family’s head of logistics. He was impeccably dressed, with a diamond pinky ring and a smirk that didn't reach his shrewd, predatory eyes.

Then Matteo’s gaze dropped to the floor.

He saw the pink dresses. He saw the toys. And finally, he saw three-year-old Sofie, who had run over to Lorenzo’s side and grabbed his pant leg, peeking up at the newcomer.

Matteo froze. The color drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, sickening flash of calculation.