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The temperature in the penthouse plunged below zero the second the wounded guard spoke.

Mateo released my arm instantly. In a fraction of a second, the brooding, intense man who had been whispering in my ear vanished. In his place stood the lethal commander Chicago feared.

“Status,” Mateo barked, striding across the room toward a concealed mahogany panel set into the wall. He pressed his palm against a hidden biometric scanner. The panel clicked open, revealing an armory that looked like it belonged to a special operations unit.

“Don Salvatore is secure in the panic bunker beneath the wine cellar,” the guard wheezed, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder. “Gianni and Marco held the outer courtyard, but Lorenzo brought outside muscle. Eastern Europeans. Mercenaries. They weren't trying to negotiate, Boss. They came with automatic rifles and incendiaries.”

Mateo didn't flinch. He selected a sleek black Glock 19, checked the chamber with practiced, mechanical efficiency, and holstered it beneath his left arm. He grabbed a second magazine, slapping it into his pocket, then turned his icy gaze back to me.

“Enzo,” Mateo said to a second bodyguard who had just entered the foyer, fully armed.

“Yes, Capo?”

“Lock down this building. Engage the elevator lockout. If anyone attempts to enter this floor without my voice clearance, shoot them through the doors. Do you understand?”

“Understood, Boss.”

Mateo turned toward me. The fury rolling off him was palpable, yet when his eyes found mine, the storm softened by a single degree.

“Stay in the guest room,” he commanded. “Do not look out the windows. Do not open the doors for anyone except Enzo.”

“Mateo, wait!” I blurted out, taking two rapid steps toward him. My hands were shaking again, but not from fear of him—from the sheer, terrifying reality of what was happening. “Your father... he’s an old man. His heart—”

“My father survived four assassination attempts before I was born, Tessa,” Mateo said grimly, closing the distance between us once more. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of my neck. His touch was fierce, possessive, anchoring me to the earth. “He won't die tonight. And neither will you. I give you my word.”

Before I could respond, he leaned down and pressed a hard, swift kiss to the center of my forehead. The gesture was shockingly tender, completely at odds with the weapon strapped under his arm.

Then he turned and walked out the door, his long black coat billowing behind him like the wings of a vengeful angel.

***

Six agonizing hours passed.

I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sit down. I paced the length of the penthouse living room, watching the red digital clock on the marble mantelpiece tick away the minutes.

*3:14 AM.*

*4:22 AM.*

*5:45 AM.*

Dawn broke over Lake Michigan in cold, pale shades of lavender and gray. Fog rolled off the water, obscuring the towers below.

I had spent my entire adult life trying to be small. When you grow up in foster homes and run-down apartments, you learn quickly that attention brings pain. If you are quiet, if you work hard, if you keep your eyes down, the world leaves you alone.

Now, an invisible thread tied me to a dynasty of blood and violence I knew nothing about.

Around six-thirty, the private elevator chimed.

Enzo immediately raised his semi-automatic rifle, his finger resting on the trigger guard. I froze, my breath caught in my throat, my hands curling into fists.

The heavy brushed-steel doors slid open.

Mateo walked out first.

His knuckles were bruised and split. There was a streak of soot across his high cheekbone, and a dark, damp stain on the left shoulder of his charcoal coat that I recognized instantly as dried blood. But he walked with absolute stability, his head held high.

Behind him walked Salvatore Vitiello.

The old man looked twenty years older than he had the previous night. His tailored suit was covered in dust, his gray hair disheveled, but his silver-headed cane tapped the marble floor with steady, furious rhythm. Four heavily armed men followed them, carrying black duffel bags.

“Clear the room,” Mateo ordered Enzo quietly.

The guards vanished down the hallway without a word, leaving the three of us standing in the center of the vast, quiet penthouse.

Salvatore stopped five feet from me. He leaned heavily on his cane, his chest rising and falling in shallow, exhausted breaths. He looked at my face, then down at my bare feet, then at the oversized sweater drowning my small frame.

“You have her hands,” the old patriarch said raspy, his voice trembling. “Alessandra had long, slender fingers. The hands of an artist. She used to play the piano in the chapel before the bells rang for vespers.”

I didn't move. “Your brother tried to kill you tonight.”

Salvatore let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-snarl. “Lorenzo is an idiot. A greedy, impatient dog who thinks he can claim a kingdom he never bled to build. He heard rumors from Bellori before the dessert was even cleared. One of Arturo’s busboys sold the information to Lorenzo’s crew for five thousand dollars.”

My stomach dropped. “A busboy?”

“The boy won't be selling any more secrets,” Mateo cut in coldly.

I closed my eyes for a second, a cold shiver racing down my spine. The reality of the world I had been pulled into was brutal and unforgiving.

“Come here, child,” Salvatore commanded gently.

I hesitated, looking at Mateo. The younger Vitiello gave me a microscopic nod, his jaw tight.

I stepped forward until I stood directly in front of the legendary Don. Salvatore reached into his inner breast pocket. His hand shook violently as he pulled out an ancient, tarnished silver velvet pouch. He untied the silk ribbon with trembling fingers and tipped the contents into his palm.

It was an antique pendant. A heavy gold locket shaped like a weeping pomegranate, encrusted with tiny, weathered rubies.

A gasp escaped my lips.

My hand flew to my collarbone, touching the empty space beneath my throat.

“You recognize it,” Salvatore whispered, his dark eyes brimming with tears.

“My grandmother... she had the matching piece,” I breathed, the memory hitting me with overwhelming clarity. “A gold key. She told me it was the key to a garden that no longer existed. She made me swear never to pawn it, no matter how hungry we were.”

“The garden of Villa Belmonte,” Salvatore wept softly, the fierce mafia boss finally breaking. “I gave her the locket on the night of our secret betrothal. I kept the key for fifty years. But she took the lock with her to the grave.”

He reached out, taking my right hand. He placed the heavy gold pomegranate into my palm, curling my fingers over it. His skin was paper-thin, dry as parchment, but warm.

“I cannot undo the fifty years of suffering your grandmother endured,” Salvatore said, his voice thick with unexpressed sorrow. “I cannot undo the poverty that killed your mother, or the years you spent serving drinks to men unworthy to breathe your air. But as God is my witness, Tessa... Lorenzo will pay for every tear this family has shed.”

“Salvatore,” Mateo warned, stepping closer. “She needs to be hidden. Lorenzo’s mercenaries were scattered, but Lorenzo himself slipped through the perimeter before we breached the gates. He is underground now.”

“Lorenzo has nowhere to hide,” Salvatore snarled, his eyes flashing with sudden, terrifying malice. “He has no allies left in Chicago. His only move now is desperation. And a desperate dog bites the nearest throat.”

The old man turned back to me, his gaze searching, urgent.

“Mateo will protect you,” Salvatore said firmly. “He is more ruthless than I ever was at his age. But you must trust him, Tessa. If you step outside his shadow for a single second, Lorenzo will use you to destroy us all.”

I looked from the ancient Don to Mateo.

Mateo was staring at me, the soot on his cheek making him look like a dark, brooding warrior from an older, more violent century. There was no hesitation in his eyes. No doubt. Only a fierce, terrifying resolve that told me, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he would burn the entire city of Chicago to ash before he let anyone touch a single hair on my head.