Rain hammered the windows of my estate that night, but inside the West Wing, no one dared make a sound.

The antique clock in my study struck two in the morning.

On my desk lay a thin manila folder labeled *Elena Vance*. Beside it sat a crystal tumbler of Scotch, completely untouched.

Across from me sat Frank Santoro, my head of intelligence and the only man in Chicago who knew where every body from the last decade was buried. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his tablet glowing blue in the dim lamplight.

"She’s clean, Adrien," Frank said, leaning forward. "Or as clean as someone can be when they're running for their life."

"Explain," I demanded.

"Her maiden name is Elena Rossi. Not the Rossi syndicate from New York—different branch, unrelated. Three years ago, she was living in Indianapolis. Married to a man named Marcus Vance. Marcus was a mid-level enforcer for the Bratva faction running loans through the Midwest. A violent, sadistic bastard."

My fingers tightened around the armrest of my leather chair. "Go on."

"About two and a half years ago, Marcus beat her so badly she miscarried her second child. Mia was eight months old at the time. One night, when Marcus passed out after an extortion run, Elena took the girl, two hundred dollars, and ran. Marcus has been turning the Midwest upside down looking for her ever since. He doesn't want her back to reconcile; he wants her dead because she witnessed him execute an undercover state trooper in their garage."

I took a slow sip of the Scotch, feeling the burn in my throat. "And how did she end up cleaning floors in my mansion?"

"She forged a clean background check under her maiden name, paid three thousand dollars to a back-alley document mill in Gary, Indiana, and applied to the housekeeping agency that services high-end estates in Lake Forest. She figured the only place Marcus wouldn't dare kick in the front door was the home of Adrien Moretti." Frank gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "She used you as an umbrella against a hurricane."

"She brought an open contract into my home," I said quietly.

"Technically, yes. If Marcus finds out she’s here, he might do something stupid."

"No one is stupid enough to attack my perimeter," I said coldly.

"Normally, no. But Marcus is hopped up on fentanyl and desperate. The feds are closing in on his crew; he thinks eliminating Elena will keep him out of federal prison." Frank closed his tablet. "What do you want me to do with them? Put them on a bus to Seattle? Give her five grand and let her disappear?"

I stared at the closed door of the study. Through the thick walls, I could almost imagine the soft, innocent sound of that child's laughter echoing in the cold marble halls. For five years, this house had been a tomb. Since my father died and left me the empire, every room smelled of blood, ledgers, and paranoia. There was no warmth here. No light.

Only ghosts and killers.

"No," I said.

Frank blinked. "No?"

"Move them out of the basement staff quarters. Put them in the West Wing guest suite. The one next to the sunroom."

Frank’s jaw dropped. "Adrien... that's inside your personal security perimeter. Nobody stays on that floor except you."

"Did I stutter, Frank?"

"No, boss. But... the capos. If they find out you're sheltering an enforcer's runaway wife and a kid, they'll think you're going soft. The Castellano family is already probing our southern border on 24th Street. If they smell weakness—"

"Let them smell whatever they want," I growled, leaning forward until the shadows across my face parted under the desk lamp. "If anyone thinks Adrien Moretti has gone soft, let them come test the theory. Prepare the suite. And tell the perimeter guards that if anyone approaches the gates asking about Elena or Mia, they are not to be turned away."

Frank frowned. "You want to invite them in?"