THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME LIFT HIS CRYING SON WITH A SCRATCH DOWN MY CHEEK—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE CAUGHT HER FACE ON A ROSE BUSH.”

The rain returned with a vengeance, sweeping across the grand circular driveway of the Moretti estate like a curtain of liquid lead.

Floodlights bathed the black asphalt in stark, blinding white light. On one side stood forty Moretti soldiers, dressed in tactical gear, assault rifles held low and ready, rain slicking their ballistic helmets. On the other side sat six black Cadillac Escalades bearing the crest of the Solonik syndicate, flanked by twenty hulking men in heavy wool coats, their hands buried deep in their pockets where submachine guns rested.

In the center of the neutral ground stood an iron pavilion.

Beneath the pavilion stood Don Falco, the eighty-year-old chairman of the High Commission, leaning heavily on a silver-topped cane, flanked by two neutral arbiters.

Beside him stood Elena.

She was stunning in a cold, aristocratic, terrifying way. Pale skin, hollow cheeks, high cheekbones, and ice-blue eyes that held not a single trace of human warmth. She wore a tailored black coat lined with fur, a cigarette burning between her leather-gloved fingers. And standing beside her, clinging nervously to her coat, was the boy—the identical mirror of Mateo, his wide eyes terrified by the ocean of guns surrounding him.

The heavy front doors of the estate swung open.

Luca walked down the stone steps.

He didn't wear body armor. He wore his midnight-blue suit, his trench coat open to the howling wind, completely ignoring the rain soaking his dark hair.

And walking right beside him, her hand resting firmly in his, was me.

I wore the emerald dress beneath a heavy black wool coat, my head held high, the silver scar across my cheek gleaming starkly under the halogen lights. On my left ring finger, the heavy emerald ring sat tightly against my skin. I had put it on myself five minutes ago in Luca’s study. If we were going down tonight, we were going down together.

Behind us walked Dante, carrying Mateo in his arms, flanked by four of our deadliest guards.

Elena’s eyes tracked Luca as he crossed the wet pavement. But when her gaze shifted to me—and landed squarely on the emerald ring gleaming on my hand—a flicker of pure, venomous shock pierced her ice-cold composure.

Luca stopped five paces from Don Falco.

"Falco," Luca greeted, his voice cutting cleanly through the roaring storm.

"Luca," the old don rasped, leaning on his cane. "You know why we are here. A mother has returned from the grave to claim her blood. The Commission recognizes the sacred right of a mother to her children."

"She is no mother," Luca said, his amber eyes locking onto Elena with a hatred so deep it could have melted the asphalt beneath them. "She abandoned Mateo in a burning villa four years ago to run away with Mikhail Solonik's heroin money. She stole my second son from his cradle. She has no claim here."

Elena stepped forward, flicking her cigarette into the wet pavement, where it hissed and died.

"I have every claim, Luca," Elena said, her voice smooth, accented, and dripping with venom. "I am your legal wife. In the eyes of the church, in the eyes of the law, and in the eyes of the Commission. You cannot replace me with a common servant you picked out of the gutter."

She sneered, looking directly at me.

"Is this who you chose, Luca? A little girl with a scarred face? You think putting an emerald on her finger makes her a donna? She is nothing. A temporary toy."

I didn't flinch. I felt the heat of Luca’s fury radiating beside me, but I didn't wait for him to speak.

I stepped forward, breaking the formation, standing directly under the harsh glare of the floodlights.

"I didn't run when the bullets started flying, Elena," I said, my voice ringing clear and steady over the sound of the falling rain. "I stood between three armed men and your son with a pitchfork while you were hiding in Moscow. You gave birth to him, but you are not his mother. A mother protects her children. You use them as bargaining chips."

Elena’s eyes narrowed into slits of pure, lethal hatred. "Mind your tongue, girl, before I have my men cut it out of your mouth."

*Click-clack.*

Forty Moretti assault rifles were raised in unison, the sound echoing like thunder across the stone courtyard. Instantly, the Russian soldiers drew their weapons, pointing them directly at our ranks.

The standoff was absolute. A single misstep, a single nervous twitch of a trigger finger, and the entire driveway would become a bloodbath.

Don Falco slammed his cane against the stone pavilion floor.

"ENOUGH!" the old man roared. "We are men of honor! We do not slaughter each other in the driveway like common thugs!"

Falco turned his hooded gaze toward Luca, then toward Elena, and finally down at the two identical four-year-old boys standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.

"The Commission has reviewed the documents," Falco said, his voice heavy with ancient, inescapable authority. "Elena Moretti is the legal wife of Luca Moretti. Her claim to the bloodline cannot be dismissed. But Emma Vance has spilled blood on Moretti soil to defend the heir, recognized by the Capo as his betrothed."

Falco paused, the tension in the courtyard coiling so tight it felt ready to snap.

"The Commission will not allow a civil war to destroy this city," Falco continued. "Therefore, the decree is final. Mateo will remain with Luca Moretti. The second boy, Leo, will remain with Elena Moretti. The territory of Brooklyn will be divided evenly between the Moretti and Solonik families until a formal tribunal can be held on the first of the year."

Elena scoffed, stepping closer. "That is unacceptable! I want both boys! I want the entire eastern shipping lane!"

"You will take what the Commission grants you, Elena!" Falco snarled, his eyes flashing with dangerous authority. "Or the five families will wipe your Russian friends off the docks before the sun rises!"

Elena’s chest heaved. She looked at Luca. Then she looked at me.

The hatred in her eyes was a living, breathing thing. She knew she had lost the immediate battle, but the war had only just opened its jaws.

"Until the first of the year, Luca," Elena whispered, stepping back toward the Escalades, pulling the little boy roughly by the hand. "Enjoy your little domestic fantasy while it lasts. Because when the Commission convenes in January, I won't just take Mateo. I will take everything you love. Starting with the girl."

She turned and climbed into the armored vehicle, slamming the heavy door shut.

The Russian convoy slowly reversed, the engines roaring, their headlights sweeping across our soaked figures before they sped out through the iron gates and disappeared into the rainy night.

Don Falco gave Luca one long, warning look.

"You won a reprieve tonight, Luca," the old man said quietly, turning to walk toward his own town car. "Not a victory. Prepare yourself. When winter comes, this city will burn."

The arbiters left. The iron gates slowly swung shut, locking with a heavy, final *clank*.

The courtyard fell silent, save for the relentless drumming of the rain.

Luca turned to face me.

Water dripped from his dark hair, plastering his shirt to his chest, running in rivulets down his sharp jawline. He looked down at my hand—at the emerald ring gleaming green and defiant against the pale skin of my finger.

"You stood your ground," Luca murmured, his voice thick with an awe he couldn't disguise.

"I told you," I whispered, shivering from the cold, but refusing to look away from his burning amber gaze. "I'm not running."

Luca reached out, pulling me roughly against his soaked chest. His arms locked around me like iron bands, shielding me from the wind, holding me as if I were the only solid thing in a world collapsing into madness.

Dante walked up beside us, holding Mateo, who reached out his little hands toward me.

"Emma!" Mateo cried softly, his little face wet with rain. "Are the bad people gone?"

I reached out and smoothed Mateo’s curls back, offering him the softest, bravest smile I could muster. "They're gone for tonight, sweet boy. You're safe."

Luca leaned his forehead against mine, his breath hot against my cold lips.

"We have two months until January, Emma," Luca whispered, his dark eyes searching mine with a terrifying, desperate question. "Two months before the Commission demands a trial. Two months before the Bratva brings war to our front door."

He took my left hand, raising it between us, his thumb tracing the emerald stone.

"You can take this ring off right now," Luca said, his voice cracking with the agonizing weight of the choice he was giving me. "I can still put you on that jet. I can still give you a peaceful, quiet life far away from the blood, the courtrooms, and the graves."

He paused, the rain pouring down between our faces, the whole world holding its breath.

"Or you can keep it on," Luca murmured, his eyes burning with an intense, unyielding fire. "You can walk back up those stone steps with me, become my wife in front of God and the syndicate, and help me wage a war that might burn us both to ash."

I looked at the house towering behind him—a fortress built on violence, but one that held the only boy I loved as my own, and the only man who had ever made my heart truly beat.

I looked down at the ring.

Then, I looked straight into the dark, terrifying soul of Luca Moretti.