His curvy housekeeper slept outside his bedroom every night, and the reason made the mafia boss forget how to breathe.

Adrian carried Claire across the expanse of his master bedroom and set her down gently in the deep, leather-lined corner of his walk-in closet. He pulled a heavy cashmere throw from the upper shelf and wrapped it securely around her shoulders.

“Stay here,” he instructed, kneeling before her so their eyes were level. His gaze was sharp, black, and completely stripped of mercy. “Do not make a sound. Do not come out until I open this door. Do you understand me, Claire?”

Claire nodded vigorously, her fingers clutching the edges of the blanket. “Adrian, please be careful.”

The slip of his first name from her lips hit him like a spark in dry brush. A dark, possessive shadow crossed his eyes, but he did not comment on it. He reached out, his thumb catching the tear on her cheek and wiping it away with surprising gentleness.

“I was born in this mud, little bird,” he murmured. “They’re the ones who should be careful.”

He stood, retrieved a suppressed Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun from the wall safe behind his ties, checked the bolt, and racked a round into the chamber.

He didn't activate the house alarms. Alarms gave traitors an excuse to run. Adrian Moretti did not want Dean Russo running. He wanted him dead.

He slid through the bedroom door, leaving it open an inch, and faded into the gloom of the fourth-floor corridor.

3:28 A.M.

The rain beat a relentless, rhythmic drumming against the skylights. The wind shrieked through the roof eaves.

Down at the end of the east wing terrace corridor, the heavy French doors clicked. A cool draft rushed through the house, carrying the scent of salt spray and wet earth.

Four silhouettes moved through the darkness. They were dressed in black tactical gear, moving in a stack, their boots muffled by rubber overshoes. Dean Russo was in the lead, a silenced Beretta raised, his face twisted in a sneer of frantic anticipation.

“Terrace clear,” Dean whispered into his throat mic. “Moving on the master suite.”

They advanced past the marble arches.

Adrian waited in the shadow of a seventeenth-century Flemish tapestry. He did not yell. He did not offer a warning.

The MP5 coughed in three rapid, rhythmic bursts.

*Pfft-pfft-pfft.*

The two men behind Dean dropped instantly, their bodies collapsing like cut marionettes, dark pools spreading across the polished marble. The third man spun, attempting to bring his rifle up, but Adrian stepped from the shadows and fired two rounds directly into his chest plate, followed by one through his throat.

Dean Russo gasped, backing away into the wall, slipping on the fresh blood of his own conspirators.

“Adrian!” Dean screamed, throwing his hands up as his weapon clattered across the floor. “Adrian, wait! It wasn't my idea! Castiglione—they made me do it! They had my brother!”

Adrian walked forward. The submachine gun hung loosely by his side from its single-point sling.

“You touched the window latch,” Adrian said, his voice flat, devoid of rage, which made it infinitely more terrifying. “You brought rats into my house.”

“Boss, please! We grew up together in Bensonhurst! You know me!”

Adrian stopped two feet from him. He reached out, grabbed Dean by the throat, and slammed his head back into the arched window. The safety glass spiderwebbed behind his skull.

“I know you’re a coward,” Adrian said. “And I know you thought you could touch my housekeeper.”

Dean’s eyes bulged. “What? That... that fat little maid? She told you?”

Adrian didn't answer with words.

He drew his combat blade from his boot. The steel caught the pale flash of lightning outside.

“She’s the only person in this house who was willing to die for me tonight,” Adrian whispered into Dean’s ear. “And you aren't worthy to clean her shoes.”