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.

Midnight arrived with a bitter, biting sleet that rattled against the cottage windows like handfuls of gravel thrown against the glass.

The capos had vanished into the storm an hour ago, moving their respective crews into position around the city. Only Matteo remained, standing guard at the cottage door with an automatic rifle slung under his heavy trench coat.

Dr. Vance had checked my vitals one last time, administered a second dose of antibiotics, and retired to the main house’s guest suite, leaving explicit instructions that I was not to leave the bed for at least forty-eight hours.

Emma was asleep beside me now, her head resting on my hip, her tiny fingers still clutching the gold-embossed button she had pulled from Alessandro’s suit jacket earlier that evening.

The room was warm, heated by a crackling fire that Alessandro had personally stoked before leaving.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the roar of the wind. Even with the medicine taking hold, a deep, gnawing anxiety kept my heart racing. I knew where Alessandro was. He was standing in the dark on the shores of the East River, watching a trap spring shut.

Suddenly, a dull, rhythmic thud echoed across the property.

It wasn't thunder. It was a massive, subterranean explosion miles away—a force so great that even the foundation of the cottage vibrated slightly beneath the floor.

Matteo stepped into the room immediately, his radio hummed with static.

"Alpha to Control," a crackling voice came through the speaker. "The warehouse at Pier 42 is fully engulfed. The Valenti strike team was contained inside. Don Valenti’s brother, Marco, was lead on the team. He didn't make it out."

Matteo pressed the button on his collar. "What about the Boss?"

"The Boss is on his way back to the estate. But... we have a problem."

Matteo’s body stiffened. "Speak."

"Don Valenti wasn't at the docks. He was a decoy. Our watchers just reported four armored sedans breaking through the south gate of the estate right now! They’re heading for the garden house!"

My blood turned to ice.

I sat up instantly, throwing off the blankets despite the sharp pain in my chest. "Emma!" I gasped, grabbing my daughter and pulling her against my chest.

"Stay down, Clara!" Matteo barked, unclipping his rifle and stepping out onto the small covered porch of the cottage.

Outside, the sound of squealing tires tore through the quiet night, followed instantly by the shattering sound of heavy automatic gunfire. The Valenti family hadn't sent their main force to the docks—they had used the shipment as bait to draw Alessandro away from the estate, knowing that his newly discovered 'weakness' was sitting defenseless in a wooden cottage behind the main house.

"Matteo!" I screamed as bullets began to shred the wooden walls of the cottage, sending splinters and plaster raining down over the room.

Matteo fired back from the porch, his rifle roaring as he held the doorway against the oncoming assault. "Get under the bed! Now!"

I dragged Emma off the mattress, covering her body with my own as we scrambled into the narrow space beneath the heavy iron bed frame. Emma didn't cry; she was so terrified that she squeezed her eyes shut, burying her face into the crook of my neck, her little body trembling like a leaf in a gale.

The cottage front door was kicked off its hinges with a deafening crash.

Matteo’s rifle went silent with a hollow click—out of ammunition. A heavy thud followed, accompanied by a sharp grunt of pain as Matteo was thrown back against the wall, dropping to the floor, bleeding heavily from a wound in his side.

Two men in black tactical gear, their faces covered by balaclavas, stepped into the ruined bedroom. Their boots were covered in mud and rainwater.

"Where is the girl?" one of them growled, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. "Don Valenti wants the kid alive! We take her to the docks in Jersey—Alessandro will trade his entire empire for her by morning!"

"Check under the bed!" the second man yelled.

A gloved hand reached beneath the dust ruffle, grabbing my ankle with a crushing grip.

I screamed, kicking wildly with my free leg, my shoe striking the man’s wrist. "Don't touch her! Don't touch my daughter!"

"Shut up, bitch!" the man snarled, dragging me outward into the middle of the room. He reached down to snatch Emma from my arms—

CRACK.

A high-caliber bullet shattered the man’s skull from behind, spraying blood across the broken floral wallpaper. He collapsed like a sack of wet stones directly onto the floorboards beside me.

The second gunman spun around, raising his weapon toward the shattered front doorway.

Before he could pull the trigger, a huge, shadow-like figure burst into the room.

It was Alessandro.

He didn't fire his gun. He grabbed the gunman by his throat, slamming him upward into the ceiling with such tremendous force that the wooden beams cracked. He dragged him back down, driving his knee into the man's ribs with a sound like snapping dry branches, then threw him through the broken window into the muddy garden outside.

The room went dead silent, save for the crackle of the fireplace and the sound of Alessandro’s heavy, ragged breathing.

He stood in the center of the ruined room, covered in rain, blood, and gunpowder smoke. His suit coat was gone, his white shirt torn at the shoulder, revealing a long, bleeding graze across his collarbone.

His eyes swept the destruction until they found me, sitting on the floor, holding Emma tightly against my chest.