The mafia boss came home early and found his fiancée doing something to his maid that ended their engagement that night

They plunged down the narrow spiral stairs into the cold stone foundations beneath the estate. Here, forty feet below ground, the sound of gunfire became a dull, rhythmic thudding, vibration humming through the granite bedrock.

Luca led the way with a tactical flashlight, the beam cutting through cobwebs and damp air. His grip on Emma’s hand was firm, unyielding. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin despite the chill of the subterranean passage.

"There's an armory at the end of this tunnel," Luca said, his breath fogging in the cold. "And an armored SUV parked in the service bay."

"Where will we go?" Emma asked, keeping pace behind him without a single complaint, though her breathing was ragged.

"The warehouse on Forty-Second Street," Luca said. "My soldiers are already there. Vincente thinks he can isolate me out here in the country. He forgot that seventy percent of his supply chain runs through terminals my family owns."

They reached a reinforced steel door at the end of the passage. Luca punched a seven-digit code into the digital keypad. The heavy deadbolts retracted with a mechanical hiss, and the door swung open into the subterranean garage of the old carriage house.

A black, armored Cadillac Escalade sat in the center of the bay, pristine and ready.

Marco was already there, his face streaked with soot and a bloody bandage wrapped around his left bicep. Two other guards stood near the garage exit with rifles raised.

"Boss," Marco said, exhaling with relief. "You made it out."

"How bad is the main house?" Luca asked, opening the passenger door for Emma.

"The west wing is gone, but the fire suppression system tripped in the gallery. The team eliminated eight of them. The rest pulled back toward the state highway when they realized the hit failed."

"Any survivors?"

Marco smiled grimly, exposing bloodstained teeth. "We took one. Sophia Bell’s brother, Julian. He was driving the lead interceptor."

Luca stopped, his hand resting on the Escalade’s frame. A cold, terrifying smile touched his lips. "Julian Bell. Vincente’s trusted courier."

Luca turned toward the corner of the garage, where a young man in tactical gear was zip-tied to a concrete pillar, his nose broken and his eyes wild with terror.

Luca walked over to him with measured, leisurely steps. He knelt down until his eyes were level with Julian’s.

"Julian," Luca said softly.

"Luca, please—I had no choice! Vincente told my father he’d bankrupt our agency if we didn't assist—"

"I don't care about your excuses, Julian," Luca interrupted, his voice almost gentle. "I want to know where Bianca is."

Julian swallowed hard, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "She’s... she’s at the penthouse in Manhattan. At the Beekman Tower. With her father. They’re meeting with the federal liaison at nine o'clock to hand over the falsified ledgers."

Luca glanced at his watch. It was four-fifteen.

"They think you’re dead," Julian whispered, tears cutting clean paths through the soot on his cheeks. "The contractors radioed that the east wing took direct incendiary hits. Vincente is popping champagne right now."

Luca patted Julian’s cheek twice, a mockery of affection that made the boy flinch.

"Good," Luca said. "Let them celebrate. It makes the hangover so much more painful."