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.

“Down!” Lorenzo roared.

The crack of a high-powered rifle shattered the night air.

The balcony glass exploded into a thousand glittering shards. Lorenzo threw his entire body over mine, slamming me down onto the reinforced concrete floor just as a second round chewed through the brickwork an inch above where my head had been.

“Sofie!” I screamed, terror clawing at my throat.

“Sal has her! The nursery is a panic room!” Lorenzo shouted over the sound of alarms blaring throughout the estate.

Sirens wailed. Heavy gunfire erupted from the front gates below—the distinct, rhythmic thud of automatic weapons. Lorenzo pulled a sleek black handgun from a holster concealed under his arm, his eyes narrowing to cold slits. He dragged me by the arm through the shattered balcony doors into the master bedroom.

Sal burst through the reinforced door, holding an assault rifle, with two heavily armored guards behind him.

“Front gate is breached!” Sal yelled. “It’s Moretti’s men! And Matteo is leading them! He shut down the secondary security grid from the perimeter terminal!”

“Where is my daughter?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice ringing with terrifying authority.

“Locked inside the steel panic room on the third floor,” Sal replied. “Biometric lock only. They can’t get in with anything short of C4.”

“Good,” Lorenzo said, his face transforming into a mask of pure, unadulterated death. “Take Clara to the nursery panic room. Lock the vault from the inside. Do not open it until you hear my voice.”

“No!” I grabbed Lorenzo’s arm, my fingernails digging into his sleeve. “Lorenzo, don’t go down there! There are too many of them!”

He looked down at me, and for a fleeting second, the monster disappeared. He cupped the back of my neck and pulled me into a hard, desperate kiss. It was electric, fierce, and full of promises we hadn’t yet had time to speak.

“I have spent four years surviving in the dark,” he whispered against my lips. “Now I have a family to live for. No one takes that from me.”

He shoved me toward Sal. “Go!”

Sal dragged me up the hidden service staircase toward the third floor. Below us, the estate echoed with the sounds of war—breaking glass, shouting men, and the relentless roar of gun battles. Tears blinded me as I ran, but the thought of Sofie kept my feet moving.

We reached the steel door of the panic room. Sal entered his code, and the heavy pneumatic lock hissed open.

Inside, Sofie was sitting on a plush sofa, holding her rabbit tightly. When she saw me, her little face crumpled, and she ran into my arms.

“Mommy! The thunder is too loud!”

“It’s okay, baby,” I wept, falling to my knees and crushing her against my chest. “Mommy’s here. We’re safe.”

Sal stepped outside the vault, his weapon raised. “Stay inside, Clara. I’m locking the seal.”

“Sal, wait!”

Before he could hit the button, a spray of bullets tore through the drywall behind him. Sal grunted, taking two rounds to the shoulder, and collapsed onto the marble floor.

Standing in the hallway was Matteo Vieri.

His face was streaked with soot, his eyes wide and bloodshot with the frenzy of a cornered rat. In his hand was a smoking pistol.

“Hello, cousin-in-law,” Matteo sneered, stepping over Sal’s bleeding body. “You should have stayed in the slums where you belonged.”

He aimed the gun directly at my chest.

Sofie screamed.

Without thinking, I threw myself over my daughter, shielding her tiny body with my own back. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the burning impact of lead, praying that my body would be enough to save her.

*BANG.*

The sound was deafening inside the small corridor.

A heavy weight collapsed against the wall.

I opened my eyes, trembling violently. I wasn’t hit.

Matteo was staring at his own chest with a look of stunned disbelief. A neat, dark hole was leaking red through his silk shirt. He slid down the wall, leaving a smear of crimson, and dropped his gun.

Standing at the end of the hall, bleeding from a graze on his temple, was Lorenzo.

His smoking weapon was still raised. Behind him, three Duca enforcers secured the hallway, the sounds of battle downstairs fading into absolute silence.

Matteo coughed up blood, glaring up at the man he had betrayed. “Julian... Julian would have... spared me...”

Lorenzo walked forward, his footsteps heavy and measured. He stood over his dying cousin, his blue eyes as empty and cold as an arctic winter.

“Julian was better than me,” Lorenzo whispered. “That’s why you killed him. But I am not Julian.”