The most feared mafia boss in New York found my three-year-old daughter secretly scrubbing his ruined shirt because I was too sick to work—and someone had deliberately arranged for him to catch her. Hours later, a laundry receipt revealed that one of his own men had been selling our names to his enemies, calling us the only weakness capable of destroying him.

The metallic click of a chambered round outside the cottage window was a sound no one living under the Moretti shadow could ever mistake.

I tried to sit up, but my lungs burned like dry brush set ablaze. The fever made the small room tilt and sway, turning the vintage floral wallpaper into a sea of shifting green and gold.

Alessandro didn't flinch. He didn't turn toward the window, nor did he raise his voice. He simply shifted his weight, his tall, broad frame shielding both me on the narrow iron bed and Emma, who was curled under his heavy, slate-gray suit jacket on the wooden chair beside me.

"Matteo," Alessandro said. His voice was lower than a whisper, yet it possessed a dense, physical weight that seemed to stop the cold wind seeping through the floorboards.

The cottage door slid open without a sound. Matteo, Alessandro’s chief enforcer—a man built like an anvil with scars running down the left side of his neck—stepped into the room. In his right hand, he held a silenced pistol, its barrel still warm and faint wisps of grey smoke rising from the tip.

"The shooter was behind the hydrangea bushes, Boss," Matteo reported, his eyes sweeping the room before settling on his master. "One rifle, high caliber. He was waiting for you to step into the frame of the window. He didn't expect me to be sweeping the rear hedge line."

"Who sent him?" Alessandro asked, staring at the crumpled blue laundry receipt in his hand.

"He wore no colors, Boss. But he had a burn mark on his left wrist. The brand of the Valenti docks."

I gasped, a wet, rattling cough tearing through my throat. Emma stirred under the suit jacket, her small fingers reaching out blindly until they found my cold hand.

"Mama?" she whimpered, her eyelashes wet with sleep. "Is the bad man gone?"

"Hush, sweet girl," I squeezed her fingers with what little strength I had left. "Mama is right here."

Alessandro looked down at the receipt. The blue carbon paper was wrinkled from being clutched in a sweating fist. The front bore the stamp of East River Dry Cleaners, a legitimate business in Queens that catered to high-end garments. But on the reverse side, written in precise, blue fountain-pen ink, were the details that had brought a hitman to my garden door:

Target: Clara Vance & Emma Vance.

Location: Rear Cottage, Moretti Estate.

Task: Stage the child in the laundry. Ensure Moretti sees her. Break his concentration before the midnight shipment.

Bounty: $500,000 paid by Valenti.

"He didn't just want to kill me," Alessandro murmured, his thumb running over the ink. "Julian knew I was coming home early today. He knew I had canceled the meeting with the Brooklyn capos. He arranged for Emma to be in that laundry room so I would find her..."

"Julian?" I whispered, my heart dropping into my stomach.

Julian was Alessandro’s personal secretary—the quiet, soft-spoken man who had hired me three months ago after my husband abandoned us, leaving me with mountains of medical debt and a infant to feed. Julian had given me this cottage. Julian had told me that Mr. Moretti was a strict man who demanded perfect uniforms, but that if I worked hard, my daughter would always have a roof over her head.

It had all been a trap. Julian hadn't helped us out of mercy. He had placed us here as a volatile piece of emotional bait, waiting for the right moment to pull Alessandro’s focus away from his empire.

"Julian is currently tied to a chair in the subterranean cellar beneath the carriage house," Matteo said coldly. "He tried to reach his car three minutes after you brought the child inside."

Alessandro slowly folded the receipt and tucked it into his vest pocket. He looked at me—truly looked at me—taking in the dark circles beneath my eyes, the cracked red lips, and the violent shivering that threatened to shake my frail frame apart.

"You have pneumonia, Clara," he said softly.

"I... I can work, Mr. Moretti," I stammered, terror gripping my chest. "Please. Emma didn't mean to ruin your shirt. She was just... she thought..."

"Stop," Alessandro commanded, though the word contained no anger. He stepped closer to the bed, dropping to one knee just as he had done in the laundry room with Emma. "You haven't eaten in two days, have you? You gave your rations to the child."

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners. "She's three. She needs her strength."

Alessandro looked over his shoulder at Matteo. "Call Dr. Vance. Tell him if he isn't at this cottage in ten minutes with full medical equipment, an oxygen setup, and broad-spectrum antibiotics, I will burn his clinic to the ground."

"Boss," Matteo hesitated, pointing toward the main house. "The Valenti family is staging an assault on the north docks in two hours. The capos are waiting for you in the war room. We need to move."

Alessandro didn't look back at his enforcer. He reached out and gently smoothed the tangled hair away from my burning forehead. His touch was large, calloused, and surprisingly warm.

"The docks can burn," Alessandro said, his tone sending a shiver through the room that had nothing to do with the winter wind. "The Valentis think they found my weakness. They think they can use a sick mother and a frightened child to make the Wolf lose his teeth."