"I had an engagement ring in my pocket when I heard the voice of the woman I lost six years ago—and then I saw the four children standing beside her.

“Take them upstairs,” I told Elena, my voice dropping back into its command frequency as I gently released Lucas.

Elena didn't argue. The mother in her recognized the shift in the air. She gathered the four boys with practiced efficiency. “Come on, guys. Maria made strawberry gelato in the sunroom.”

“Gelato!” Julian cheered, instantly forgetting the ship.

As Elena guided them past me, her hand brushed against mine. Her fingers tightened around my wrist for a fraction of a second—a silent, desperate plea to come back alive.

“I’ll be fine,” I murmured. “Lock the suite doors.”

She nodded once, her jaw set, and led the boys up the grand staircase.

I turned back to the study. I opened the lower drawer of my desk, unholstered my custom Sig Sauer P226, checked the magazine, and chambered a round with a smooth, metallic click. I slipped it into the leather holster beneath my arm, buttoned my jacket, and walked into the main reception hall.

The massive double doors of the manor were wide open. The winter wind whipped snow across the threshold, coating the marble floor in frost.

Standing in the center of the hall was Salvatore Moretti.

At sixty-two, my uncle was a barrel-chested man with slicked-back silver hair, expensive camel-hair wool, and the dead, reptilian eyes of a man who had murdered his way to the top of the North End rackets in the 1980s. Flanking him were six men in heavy overcoats, their hands tucked conspicuously inside their pockets.

Anthony and eight of our personal security team stood on the perimeter, their submachine guns lowered but ready.

“Dominic,” Salvatore rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. “You didn't answer my calls. I thought perhaps you were still at the altar, looking for your bride.”

His men let out a low, mocking chuckle.

I didn't smile. I walked down the curved staircase slowly, my shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone, stopping three steps from the bottom so I towered over him.

“You’re trespassing, Salvatore,” I said evenly. “The dinner with the Commission is set for eight. It is currently four in the afternoon.”

“The Commission doesn't need to meet at eight,” Salvatore said, stepping closer. “We had a meeting this morning. Without you. You disgraced this family last night, nephew. You walked away from the Barrett alliance. You exposed our logistics lines to federal scrutiny. All for what? A rumor from the Back Bay? A piece of trash you used to sleep with six years ago?”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Anthony shifted his weight, his hand tightening on the grip of his rifle.

I took the final three steps down to the marble floor. I didn't reach for my gun. I walked straight up to Salvatore until our faces were inches apart. He was an inch shorter than me, his breath reeking of expensive cigars and sour espresso.

“Say her name,” I whispered, so softly that only he could hear. “Say one more word about Elena, Uncle, and I will execute you on this floor in front of your men.”

Salvatore sneered, though a tiny flicker of unease crossed his eyes. “You’re losing your grip, Dominic. You think you’re invincible? Senator Barrett has freeze orders ready for our bank accounts. The other families are nervous. They want a leader with stability, not a boy chasing ghosts.”

“I’m not chasing ghosts,” I replied coldly.

Right on cue, the sound of small footsteps echoed from the landing above.

Matteo, carrying his drawing pad, had slipped away from the sunroom and was peering through the balusters of the second-floor gallery. “Dad? Julian took my red marker.”

The hall went dead, terrifyingly silent.

Salvatore’s eyes shot upward. He stared at the small boy looking down through the ornate wrought-iron railing. Then his gaze dropped back to me, his pupils dilating with sudden, shocking comprehension.

“Dad?” Salvatore breathed. “What... what is that?”

“That is Matteo Moretti,” I said, my voice echoing with absolute sovereignty throughout the grand hall. “He has three brothers upstairs. Julian, Lucas, and Leo. Born six years ago. Legitimate blood heirs to the Moretti empire.”

Salvatore’s mouth opened slightly. The camel-hair coat suddenly looked too heavy on his shoulders. The men behind him shifted uncomfortably, exchanging panicked glances.

In the underworld, an unmarried Don without an heir is vulnerable to internal coup. A Don with four healthy, direct sons of pure Moretti bloodline is a dynasty that cannot be unseated without an all-out civil war that would burn the city to the ground.

“Vincente...” Salvatore stammered, his gravelly voice cracking. “Vincente said she took the money and aborted the child.”

“My father lied to you, just like he lied to her,” I said, stepping into Salvatore’s personal space, driving him back a step toward the open door. “The line of succession is closed, Salvatore. The Barrett alliance is dead because I don't need their bloodline to secure my name. I have my sons. And I have their mother.”

Salvatore regained his sneer, but it was hollow now, poisoned by fear. “Barrett won't let this go, Dominic. He’s going to strike. And when he does, those little bastards of yours will be caught in the crossfire.”

I moved faster than human reflex could track.

My left hand shot out, clamping around Salvatore’s throat like a hydraulic vise, slamming him against the heavy oak entrance pillar. My right hand drew the Sig Sauer, pressing the cold steel barrel directly under his chin, forcing his head back.

His six bodyguards reached for their coats, but the simultaneous *clack* of ten Moretti assault rifles clicking off their safeties froze them in place.

“Listen to me, old man,” I growled into Salvatore’s ear, squeezing his trachea until his face turned purple. “If a single shadow falls across this estate, if Senator Barrett so much as sneezes in the direction of my family, I will not come for him first. I will come for you. I will cut your empire out of the North End piece by piece, and I will feed your legacy to the rats in Boston Harbor.”

I shoved him toward the door. Salvatore stumbled into the snow, coughing violently, clutching his bruised throat.