CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED CRIME BOSS FOUND HIS HOUSEKEEPER’S THREE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER POLISHING HIS SHOES AT MIDNIGHT—THEN HER CHILDISH DRAWING EXPOSED THE ONE MAN HE NEVER THOUGHT TO FEAR INSIDE HIS OWN HOME

Frank Sterling froze.

The heavy leather duffel bag dropped from his hand, hitting the hardwood floor with a dull thud.

Slowly, terrifyingly, Frank turned around.

Damian Cross stood in the doorway of his private study. His trench coat was soaked with rain and marked with dust, his twin suppressed pistols held loosely at his sides. His gray eyes were dead, holding zero emotion, staring at Frank as if looking at a ghost.

Behind Frank, the large painting of Damian’s father hung on the wall, the golden frame catch the dim red flicker of the emergency lights.

“Damian...” Frank stammered, raising his hands slowly, trying to maintain his posture. “Thank God you’re alive! Moretti’s men... they breached the south gate! I was trying to secure your private files before they reached the second floor!”

Damian stepped into the room, his boots clicking softly against the floor. He didn't raise his guns. He didn't yell.

“Save it, Frank,” Damian said softly.

Frank’s eyes flickered toward his desk drawer where a secondary weapon was hidden. “Damian, you have to believe me! I’ve served this family for thirty years! I took a bullet for your father!”

“And my father loved you like a brother,” Damian said, stopping five feet in front of him. “He gave you a home. He gave you power. He gave you his trust.”

Damian reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a single sheet of cheap yellow construction paper. He unfolded it and held it up between them.

On the paper, drawn in thick olive-green wax, was the double-looped snake wrapped around a wrist.

Frank’s face went dead white. The color drained from his lips, his mouth opening in shock.

“Ellie drew this,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the hair on Frank’s neck stand up. “She was hiding under the rosebush near the south gate on Tuesday night. She watched you give the key to Lorenzo Moretti’s scout. She saw the tattoo under your watchband.”

Frank stared at the childish drawing. A bitter, hysterical laugh suddenly bubbled up from his chest.

“A three-year-old child...” Frank laughed bitterly, dropping his hands to his sides, his defensive posture vanishing, replaced by a venomous, hateful sneer. “A housekeeper’s bastard child ruined three years of planning.”

“Why, Frank?” Damian asked, his voice genuinely curious. “I gave you millions. You had complete authority over this estate.”

“Authority?” Frank spat, his eyes flashing with sudden rage. “I was a glorified security guard! I took three bullets in the chest for your old man! I bled for the Cross name! And when your father died, I expected to be made a partner! I expected a seat at the high table!”

Frank took a step toward Damian, his face twisted in jealousy. “Instead, you kept me on a leash! And then... then you bring a sick housekeeper and her brat into the East Wing? You start talking about setting up education funds for the staff’s kids? You turned soft, Damian! You turned into a weak, sentimental old man!”

“Taking care of the people who serve this house isn't weakness, Frank,” Damian said quietly. “It’s responsibility.”

“Lorenzo Moretti offered me fifty percent of the south side shipping routes,” Frank sneered, his hand slowly drifting down toward his broad leather wristband. “He offered me respect!”

“Lorenzo Moretti is currently dead on Pier 42,” Damian corrected him coldly. “And respect isn't bought with betrayal.”

Frank’s eyes went wide with shock. Realizing he had zero leverage left, Frank reached frantically for a hidden blade tucked inside his broad watch strap—the green snake’s hidden fang.

THUD.

Damian moved with terrifying speed.

He didn't use his guns. He closed the distance in a fraction of a second, grabbing Frank by the throat with his bare hand and slamming him hard against the portrait of his dead father.

The heavy glass frame shattered, showering gold flakes onto the floor.

Damian pressed his thumb hard against Frank’s windpipe, cutting off his air, lifting the sixty-year-old traitor three inches off the floor.

“My father died believing you were a loyal man, Frank,” Damian growled into his face, his eyes flashing with lethal fury. “I’m going to let him keep believing that in hell... because no one will ever remember your name.”