“MAMA!” The silent mafia boss’s daughter screamed at a waitress—and when the boss saw the woman’s face, he realized the child he thought was his had been stolen from another mother two years ago.

Damian didn't pause as he stepped over the fallen mercenary. He grabbed Elena by the arm, dragging her into the mahogany-paneled master study, and pressed a hidden button beneath the lip of his heavy oak desk.

With a deep, pneumatic hiss, a three-inch-thick steel door slid open in the wall behind the bookcase, revealing a brightly lit, self-contained bunker stocked with monitors, food supplies, and communications gear.

“Get inside,” Damian instructed, shoving Elena gently into the safe room.

Elena turned around, clutching Leah. “Damian, you can’t fight them all out there alone!”

“I built this house to withstand a siege, Ms. Rossi,” Damian replied, reaching to the side of the doorframe to activate the vault’s control panel. “The steel walls of this room are rated for heavy explosives. Once I seal this door, no one gets in without the master key code.”

“Damian, wait!” Elena called out.

He stopped, his hand hovering over the keypad. He looked at Leah, who was staring at him from inside the bunker. The little girl reached out one tiny hand toward him, her lips moving silently.

“Be careful, Uncle Damian,” Leah whispered.

Damian froze. The word echoed in his ears—Uncle.

A rare, genuine smile touched the corners of Damian’s lips for the first time in years. “I will bring your mother her life back, little one. I promise you.”

Damian slammed his palm onto the lock button.

The heavy steel door slid shut with a definitive, mechanical THUD, sealing Elena and Leah safely inside the bombproof sanctuary.

Damian turned around, the smile vanishing from his face instantly, replaced by a expression of pure, unadulterated slaughter.

He walked over to a weapons locker in his study, pulled out a tactical vest, strapped it over his suit, and grabbed two extra drum magazines for his submachine gun. He tapped his comms earbud.

“Frank. How many hostiles inside the mansion?”

“Nine down in the foyer, Boss!” Frank responded over the crackling radio. “But Victor Vance himself just arrived in an armored SUV! He brought his core execution squad—at least twelve heavy gunners! They’ve pushed us back to the grand staircase!”

“Hold your positions on the landing,” Damian commanded, stepping out into the hallway. “I am coming down from the secondary terrace.”

Damian moved through the upper gallery of the mansion like a shadow. He knew every inch of his home, every hidden passage, every blind spot in the architecture.

Below him, in the grand foyer, the scene was a warzone. Crystal chandeliers hung shattered from the ceiling, their glass droplets raining down onto the blood-stained marble floor. The heavy oak front doors lay splintered off their hinges.

Standing in the center of the foyer, surrounded by six heavily armed mercenaries, was Victor Vance.

Victor was fifty years old, wearing a crisp silver suit that seemed grotesquely out of place amid the smoke and carnage. He held a gold-plated revolver in his right hand, a cruel, arrogant smirk playing across his thin lips.

“Damian!” Victor’s voice boomed through the high-vaulted hall, echoing off the stone walls. “Come down and face me like a Don! Marco told me everything! You’ve been raising a bastard waitress’s kid while pretending she was Julian’s legacy!”

Damian stood hidden in the dark shadows of the second-floor balcony, his eyes locked onto Victor’s forehead.

“You’re finished, Damian!” Victor laughed maniacally. “The Syndicate Council already knows! By sunrise, every family in Chicago will know you’re soft! They’ll know you let a woman trick you for two years! Hand over the child, and I might let you take a boat to Florida!”

Damian stepped out of the shadows, presenting a lone, imposing silhouette against the moonlit stained-glass window at the top of the stairs.

“Victor,” Damian spoke, his voice calm, clear, and dripping with absolute authority. “You brought twelve men into my home.”