I watched one nurse after another walk out of the mansion in tears because the dying mafia boss refused to let anyone near him. Then my deaf four-year-old daughter wandered into the one room everyone feared, placed her tiny hand on his chest, and somehow reached the ruthless man no one else could. When I finally found them together, the look in Damian Volkov's eyes made me question everything I thought I knew about monsters.

The next morning, the war beneath the surface broke into the open.

Salvatore Maroni arrived at Grayhaven House uninvited, accompanied by six armed enforcers. They marched through the front gates as if they owned the estate, pushing past the gate guards and demanding an immediate audience with Damian in the grand ballroom.

I was up in the master suite feeding Lila her breakfast oats when heavy boots echoed up the stone staircase.

Mrs. Gable burst into the room, her face drained of color. "Clara! You need to hide! Salvatore and his men have taken over the ground floor. They're demanding the master keys. They say Mr. Volkov is incapacitated and the council is taking over command!"

I looked at Lila, who was happily coloring another picture of Mr. Hoppers wearing a tiny crown.

"Where is Mr. Volkov?" I asked, my heart pounding.

"He's... he's coming down," Mrs. Gable whispered in horror. "He refused to stay in bed. He's got his sidearm."

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Lila's hand, tucking her sketchpad under my arm. "We're going down too."

"Clara, are you insane—?"

"He saved us yesterday, Mrs. Gable. I'm not leaving him alone with wolves."

When we reached the grand staircase overlooking the marble foyer and ballroom, the scene below looked like something out of a medieval siege.

Salvatore Maroni stood in the center of the ballroom, his tailored suit jacket open to reveal a shoulder holster, surrounded by his armed thugs. Across from him stood Viktor Vance and four loyal guards, their weapons drawn, a tense standoff keeping bullets from flying.

And then, descending the grand staircase behind us, came Damian.

He was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that fit his lean, formidable frame like armor. His dark hair was combed back, his posture unyielding. There was no trace of the pale, trembling dying man from a week ago. He looked lethal, sovereign, and untouchable.

"Salvatore," Damian’s voice echoed off the crystal chandeliers, dropping the temperature in the room by twenty degrees.

Salvatore spun around, his arrogant smirk faltering slightly as he looked up at the man everyone assumed was on his deathbed.

"Damian," Salvatore recovered quickly, forcing a tight, greasy smile. "Glad to see you're finally vertical. But let's be honest with each other—your syndicate is bleeding. The council has decided it's time for a transition of power. Hand over the ledger codes, and we'll let you retire quietly to a villa in Sicily."

Damian continued walking down the steps, his hard leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone.

He didn't stop until he reached the bottom landing, standing just ten feet away from Salvatore.

"A villa in Sicily," Damian repeated, his tone dripping with dangerous amusement. He reached into his jacket pocket. "You know, Salvatore, I spent a lot of time thinking about who poisoned my wine. Was it the Colombos? Was it the federal informants? Or was it some ambitious little rat sitting at my own table?"

Salvatore's smile vanished. "You have no proof."

"Proof?" Damian chuckled darkly. He pulled a heavy leather ledger from his pocket and tossed it onto the marble table between them. "Every bribe, every offshore account, every smuggled shipment from your Chicago couriers—it's all here. Including the bank wire transferring fifty thousand dollars to the apothecary who supplied the arsenic."

Color drained entirely from Salvatore’s face. He lunged for his shoulder holster—

Bang!

A single gunshot shattered the silence.

Viktor’s bullet caught Salvatore’s shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him against the marble pillar.