THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE ORDERED ME TO GET RID OF HIS OLD DOG BEFORE THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN I CARRIED HIM INTO THE DINING ROOM, THE MOST FEARED MAN IN CHICAGO GOT DOWN ON HIS KNEES.

The rain beat down relentlessly, soaking through our clothes, plastering my hair to my face as we stood trapped in the glare of the floodlights. Clara was trembling violently against Luca’s back. Barnaby stood in front of me, his body rigid, water dripping from his muzzle as he stared down the circle of hitmen.

"You had a good run, boy," Salvatore said, rising slowly from the bench. "Twenty-two years of playing king. But a king must have the stomach to butcher his own kin when necessary. You don't have it. You never did."

Salvatore signaled with two fingers.

Two of his enforcers stepped forward, dragging Frankie Vane and two other capos who had dared to speak up for Luca in the dining room. Their hands were zip-tied behind their backs, their faces bruised and bloody. They threw the three men onto their knees in the wet gravel before Salvatore.

"Look at them, Luca," Salvatore demanded, his voice chillingly calm. "These men believed in you. They thought loyalty was rewarded with honor. But in our world, loyalty is an illusion. Watch what happens to fools who bet on the wrong horse."

Salvatore drew a suppressed pistol from beneath his overcoat and casually fired three shots into the backs of their heads.

The three bodies collapsed into the mud without a sound.

Clara shrieked in horror, burying her face into my shoulder as I pulled her tightly against me, my stomach turning in violent revulsion. The sheer brutality of the act, committed without a flicker of emotion, revealed the true monster that had returned to Chicago.

"Now," Salvatore said, slipping the warm pistol back into his holster and turning toward Luca. "It’s time to settle the family estate. You have one chance, son. Kneel before me in this mud. Kiss the ring. Surrender the syndicate, and I will let Clara and your little maid live in an Italian convent until their natural days end."

"And me?" Luca asked, his voice dead and cold.

Salvatore smiled that horrific, burned smile. "You will be my general. You will fight my wars in New York until you bleed out like a dog. That is the only mercy I offer."

Luca stood tall, ignoring the thirty guns trained on his heart. He looked around the circle of hitmen—men from Sicily, cold-eyed mercenaries who had never lived under Chicago’s code, men who only served gold and fear.

Then, Luca looked down at Barnaby.

"You remember the training, boy?" Luca whispered in Italian, so softly that only Barnaby and I could hear.

Barnaby’s ears flicked back. His eyes locked onto Luca’s right hand.

"Elena," Luca whispered, his lips barely moving. "When I drop, you and Clara run for the boathouse pier. The master key to the offshore cruiser is in the yellow locker on the wall. Don't look back."

"Luca, no—" I breathed.

"Run, Elena," he commanded. "Save my sister."

Luca shifted his gaze back to his father. He raised his hands slowly, as if preparing to kneel in surrender. Salvatore’s smile widened, triumphant, arrogant, convinced he had broken his son’s spirit.

"Good boy," Salvatore purred. "Down on your knees."

Luca dropped to one knee. But as his knee hit the mud, his hand didn't reach for the ring—it plunged into his tactical boot, pulling the pin on a heavy flashbang grenade he had concealed inside his leather shaft.

"Kill him!" Salvatore screamed, realizing the trick a second too late.