"THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME SERVE HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER WITH MY HAIR COVERING ONE EYE—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE HIT HER FACE ON THE PANTRY DOOR,” BEFORE HE HAD EVEN ASKED WHAT HAPPENED.

The Astor Street mansion had changed in the seven hours we had been gone.

The flowers from the engagement dinner—thousands of dollars of white lilies and scarlet roses—had been stripped from their silver vases and thrown into black trash bags piled by the carriage house. The long mahogany dining table where twenty-six guests had laughed the night before was now covered in street maps, surveillance printouts, and heavy, secure satellite radios.

Men I had never seen before filled the grand foyer.

They weren't wearing dinner jackets. They wore dark leather jackets, heavy work boots, and wool caps pulled low over hard, scarred foreheads. They spoke in low, hushed tones, their eyes flicking toward the front door every time the brass latch rattled.

When Luca walked in with me beside him, the entire entryway went dead silent.

I was still wearing the oversized navy coat, but Mrs. Carter met us at the foot of the grand staircase, carrying a soft, cream-colored cashmere wrap. Without a word of judgment, the old housekeeper draped it around my shoulders, her eyes lingering on the bruise beneath my left eye with a fierce, motherly sorrow.

"Your room is ready, child," Mrs. Carter whispered. "Hot bath, clean clothes. Dr. Harris left a fresh salve for the swelling."

"Thank you, Mrs. Carter," I murmured.

"She doesn't stay upstairs, Mrs. Carter," Luca commanded, stripping off his wet peacoat and tossing it to a young guard by the door. "Bring her coffee in the library. She sits with the council."

A ripple of quiet shock moved through the men gathered in the foyer.

Frankie 'The Hook' stepped out of the dining room, holding a half-eaten cigar between two nicotine-stained fingers. "Luca, with respect... this is family business. Bellini is bringing three crews from New York with him. We don't need housemaids in the room when the iron comes out."

Luca stopped at the library door. He didn't turn around quickly; he turned with that slow, predatory precision that made grown men look at their boots.

"Frankie," Luca said, his voice flat as a razor. "Who holds the deed to the South Branch right now?"

Frankie blinked, taken aback. "Elena, isn't it? The trust—"

"No," Luca interrupted. He reached out, caught my wrist gently, and lifted my hand into the warm light of the chandelier.

Dangling from my fingers by a thin leather cord was the small brass key stamped with 412.

"Arthur Hayes’s daughter holds the deed," Luca said, his voice carrying into every corner of the high-ceilinged hall. "The Bellinis came into my house, struck her across the face, and tried to frame her for their debts. As far as this council is concerned, Olivia Hayes is the family business. Anyone who has a problem with her being at this table can leave their iron on the hall table and walk out the front gate."

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

Frankie stared at the brass key, then slowly took the cigar from his mouth, nodding his silver head in grudging, heavy respect.

"Understood, boss," Frankie muttered. "Bring the girl in."

The library was thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigar smoke.

A large oak conference table had been cleared in the center of the room, surrounded by eight high-backed leather chairs. Luca pulled the chair at the head of the table out—the one he normally occupied—and seated me in it.

He didn't take a seat himself. He stood directly behind my chair, his hands resting on the carved wood above my shoulders, his presence an impenetrable wall of muscle and bone at my back.

"Daniel," Luca said. "What is Bellini’s manifest?"

Daniel tapped his tablet, projecting an encrypted manifest onto the flat-screen monitor mounted above the limestone fireplace.

"Antonio Bellini landed thirty minutes ago at O'Hare's private terminal," Daniel reported. "He has twelve men with him. Six from his Naples personal guard, six hired enforcers from the Lucchese family in Queens. They’ve chartered four black Suburbans. They aren't going to their hotel. They’re heading straight down the Kennedy Expressway toward Astor Street."

"He wants his daughter back," Frankie growled from the corner. "And he wants to know why his credit lines were frozen in Manhattan at seven this morning."

"His daughter is currently sitting in a holding cell at the federal detention center in Loop," Luca replied smoothly. "Daniel delivered the forged affidavits and William Mercer’s laptop to the United States Attorney at eight-fifteen."

A sharp collective intake of breath echoed around the table.

Even Frankie looked stunned. "You went to the feds, Luca? That’s against the code. We don't bring the government into family disputes."

"Vanessa didn't bring a family dispute into my house," Luca said, his eyes narrowing into cold gray slits. "She brought an indictment. She tried to use the federal courts to steal sixty years of Moretti labor. I simply returned her property to the rightful authorities."

He looked down at me, his fingers tightening slightly on the back of my chair.

"And now, Antonio Bellini is coming here to negotiate the price of his survival."

Before anyone could reply, the heavy iron gates at the end of the Astor Street driveway buzzed over the intercom.

The guard’s voice crackled through the speaker on the desk:

"Boss. Four black Suburbans just pulled up to the gate. Antonio Bellini is in the lead car. He says he’s here for his daughter, or he burns the block down."

Luca didn't flinch.

He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropping into that deep, calming baritone that had kept me grounded through the terror of the last twelve hours.

"Don't lower your head, Olivia," he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. "Don't tuck your hair over your eye. Let the old man see what his family paid for."