She thought she could easily silence a helpless nanny, until the terrifying footsteps of the mafia boss echoed from the shadows behind her.

Serena pulled her foot back as if the floor had ignited beneath her.

Her manic composure dissolved in a fraction of a second, replaced by wide-eyed, trembling panic. Her manicured hands flew to her chest, her breathing hitching in a theatrical performance of distress.

“Victor!” she cried, taking a hurried, stumbling step toward him. “Oh thank God you’re home early! Victor, it was horrifying—I walked in and found her—she was shaking Ethan! She threw him down the corridor! I tried to stop her, I tried to pull him away from her, but she attacked me—”

Victor didn't look at her face. His gaze tracked down to the polished tip of her stiletto, where a faint smear of Lily’s blood clung to the cream leather.

“Dominic,” Victor murmured, his tone eerily level.

“Boss,” Dominic responded instantly.

“Lock the exterior gates. Nobody enters. Nobody leaves. Call Evans. Tell him if he isn't here in eight minutes, I will burn his practice to the ground.”

“On it.” Dominic pulled a satellite phone from his coat, already barking coordinates as he turned back toward the courtyard.

Victor walked forward. Each step of his handmade leather shoes against the marble fell like a hammer strike. He bypassed Serena entirely, ignoring her outstretched, manicured hands as if she were a pane of dirty glass.

He dropped to one knee beside Ethan.

The ruthless titan who had executed three cartel lieutenants in a warehouse off Lake Michigan without blinking removed his leather gloves with excruciating care. He tucked them into his breast pocket. Then, with hands that were lethal weapons, he gently hovered his fingers above his son’s tiny neck.

He found the pulse. Rapid. Thready.

“Ethan,” Victor breathed.

At the sound of the deep, familiar timbre, the baby’s eyelids flickered. A tiny, broken moan slipped past Ethan’s blue-tinged lips. But the boy did not turn toward his father. His tiny, uninjured right hand twitched across the floor, his fingers weakly scratching at the marble, reaching blindly toward the girl lying two feet away.

“L... Lily...” the toddler gasped, his voice cracked from hours of crying.

Victor looked up. His slate eyes locked onto Lily.

Lily was struggling to draw air, her chest heaving in shallow, agonized spasms. Her cheek was pressed against the cold stone, her dark hair matted with sweat. Yet, despite the pain that clearly wracked her torso, her amber eyes were fixed entirely on Ethan.

“His shoulder,” Lily forced the words past her bloody lips, every syllable costing her dearly. “Mr. Blackwood... his shoulder is dislocated. She... she dragged him. Please... don’t let him move his arm. It’s tearing the joint.”

“Shut up! Shut your lying mouth!” Serena shrieked from behind Victor. Her voice was shrill, the hysteria of a cornered beast showing through her socialite facade. “She’s trying to cover her tracks, Victor! Look at her! She’s mentally unstable! I saw her drop him! I was defending your son!”

Victor did not turn around. He reached out with one massive, calloused hand and gently slid it under Ethan’s uninjured side, lifting the boy against his broad chest while keeping the shattered arm completely immobilized. Ethan buried his face into the wool of his father’s coat, whimpering softly, his tiny body trembling against the rhythmic thud of Victor’s heartbeat.

With his other hand, Victor reached out to Lily.

He didn't offer her a harsh yank or an indifferent dismissal. His long, scarred fingers slid under her jaw, gently tilting her face up toward the chandelier light.

His thumb wiped away the blood at the corner of her mouth. He felt the rapid flutter of her jugular, the heat of her skin, and the genuine, undiluted terror in her eyes—terror not for herself, but for the child in his arms.

“Did she touch you?” Victor asked softly.

Lily looked into the eyes of the man the entire Midwest criminal syndicate whispered about in hushed, terrified tones. Men groveled before him. Politicians took his bribes and prayed he never visited their homes. But right now, his gaze was an unreadable ocean of absolute lethal promise.

“She dragged him from the nursery,” Lily whispered, her vision darkening as the adrenaline began to drain, leaving pure agony in its wake. “He wouldn't stop crying for his blanket. She said... she said she was sick of his noise. She kicked me when I tried to take him.”

“Liar!” Serena screamed, taking a furious step forward. “Victor, are you seriously listening to the help over me? My father controls half the shipping docks in the port! You need the Montigues! You think I would hurt a child? I am your future wife!”

Victor rose slowly to his full height. Holding his son securely against his chest with his left arm, he turned around to face Serena.

He didn't yell. The temperature in the foyer seemed to drop below freezing.

“My wife died two years ago, Serena,” Victor said, his voice terrifyingly quiet. “You were an acquisition. A business merger brokered over whiskey and trade routes.”

“Victor, please—”

“Dominic,” Victor said without breaking eye contact with Serena.

The enforcer stepped through the doorway, pocketing his phone. “Evans is three minutes out. Sirens blazing.”

“Good,” Victor said. Then, his cold gaze dropped to Serena’s feet. “Take off the shoes.”

Serena blinked, utter confusion shattering her panic. “What?”

“The shoes,” Victor repeated, his tone flat. “Take them off.”

“Victor, this is ridiculous! I am a Montigue, you cannot treat me like—”

Victor’s arm moved with supernatural speed. In the span of a heartbeat, his right hand caught Serena by the throat.

The sound of his grip closing on her windpipe was like a vise snapping shut. He lifted her off her feet with a single arm, backing her up against the massive limestone pillar that framed the grand staircase.

Serena’s hands clawed frantically at his iron wrist, her mouth opening in silent gasps, her legs kicking uselessly in the air.

“You dragged my son,” Victor whispered into her face, his voice carrying the finality of a guillotine. “You broke his bones. You kicked a defenseless girl who took a blow for my flesh and blood. And you dare to speak to me about docks?”

He squeezed. Serena’s eyes bulged, red veins bursting across her sclera.

“Victor!” a voice cried out from the floor.

It wasn't Dominic. It was Lily.

She was propping herself up on one elbow, her face pale as parchment.

“Don't... don't do it in front of Ethan,” Lily begged, her voice cracking. “Please. He’s already terrified. Don't let him see this.”

Victor paused.

He glanced down at his chest. Ethan was clutching Victor’s lapel with his tiny right hand, his tear-soaked face pressed tight into the wool, shivering violently.

Slowly, deliberately, Victor released his grip.

Serena dropped to the floor in a heap of silk and diamonds, coughing violently, gasping for air as she clutched her bruised throat.

“Dominic,” Victor ordered, turning his back on her as the wail of approaching sirens echoed outside the gates. “Strip her of her phone, her keys, and her jewelry. Put her in the wine cellar. Secure the door. If Julian Montigue calls looking for his daughter, tell him she is currently unavailable for negotiation.”

“No!” Serena wheezed from the floor, crawling backward in horror. “You can’t do this, Victor! My father will destroy you!”

Victor didn't even look back as Dominic dragged her screaming toward the basement stairs.

Instead, Victor walked over to Lily, who was finally losing her battle with consciousness. As her elbow gave out and she fell toward the stone, Victor leaned down, catching her effortlessly against his side with one arm, cradling his broken son with the other.