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

The attack was quelled within twenty minutes.

Eight men lay dead on the grounds. Four were captured alive and taken down into the labyrinth beneath the mansion where Frank Santoro awaited them with his instruments of interrogation.

By midnight, the truth had been carved out of them.

I stood in the center of the grand foyer, surrounded by fifty heavily armed men loyal to my family. Outside, the rain washed away the blood on the driveway.

Frank walked up the basement stairs, wiping his hands on a white rag. His face was grim.

"It wasn't just Vance," Frank said, his voice flat. "Vance is a dog on a leash. The Castellano family financed the hit, but they didn't guess the codes to our southern security gate. They were given the bypass frequencies."

A deadly chill settled over the room. The men shifted uncomfortably.

"Who?" I asked.

Frank didn't look at the guards. He looked toward the curved mahogany staircase.

Standing near the top of the landing was Dominic Moretti—my second cousin and the man who oversaw our logistics and supply chains on the docks.

Dominic froze. His hand went instantly to the inside of his jacket.

"Don't do it, Dominic," I said without raising my voice.

Dominic's face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer. "You brought this on yourself, Adrien! You’re losing your mind! For two weeks, the entire city has been laughing at us! The great Adrien Moretti playing daddy to a runaway whore and her brat! The Castellanos offered us a 50-50 split on the port if I helped Vance collect his wife and put a bullet in your head!"

Upstairs, a door clicked open.

Elena stepped out onto the mezzanine, holding Mia's hand. When she heard Dominic’s words, her face paled, and she pulled Mia behind her skirts.

"Look at you!" Dominic shouted, pointing wildly at Elena. "Risking a billion-dollar empire for *that*! She’s nobody! Her ex-husband is garbage! And you’re turning our bloodline into a joke!"

I didn't shout. I didn't draw my weapon.

I slowly climbed the stairs, step by deliberate step.

Dominic panicked. He pulled his chrome revolver, aiming it directly at my forehead. "Stop right there, Adrien! I swear to God I'll pull the trigger!"

"Do it," I whispered, continuing my ascent.

Dominic’s hand was shaking. He looked down at the fifty rifles pointed at his spine from the foyer below, then back at my eyes. In my eyes, he saw what every man saw before they died: an abyss that did not negotiate, did not forgive, and did not spare.

"You were family, Dominic," I said as I reached the top landing, standing two feet from the barrel of his gun. "I forgave your gambling debts. I forgave your incompetence. But you brought armed killers into a house where this child sleeps."

Dominic's finger twitched on the trigger.

In a blur of motion faster than the human eye could track, my left hand slapped the barrel aside while my right palm drove into his elbow joint with a sickening *crack*.

Dominic shrieked as his arm snapped backward. The gun dropped to the carpet.

I grabbed him by the throat, lifting his feet off the floor with one arm, and slammed him against the heavy banister overlooking the foyer below.

"Adrien... please... we’re blood!" Dominic choked out, his face turning dark purple.

"Blood doesn't make you family," I said coldly. "Loyalty does."

I threw him over the railing.

Dominic hit the marble floor thirty feet below with a hollow, final thud. The foyer fell into absolute, breathless silence.

None of my capos moved. None of them questioned the execution.

I turned around.

Elena was standing ten feet away, trembling, holding Mia against her chest with both hands covering the girl's eyes so she wouldn't see the body below.

I walked toward them, stopping just short of touching Elena.

"You should take Mia into the bedroom," I said softly, my voice hoarse. "This isn't over yet. Marcus Vance is still alive. He’s hiding at an old warehouse on the south docks. I am going to end him tonight."

Elena lowered her hands from Mia's eyes. She stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and laid her palm against my cheek.

Her skin was soft, warm, and smelled of the sweet lavender soap she used.

"Come back to us," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "Promise me, Adrien. Don't let him drag you into the dark. Come back."

For the first time in my life, I leaned into a woman’s touch. I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of her hand anchor my battered soul.