She was just a little girl standing in the mansion of Boston’s most feared mafia boss, wearing her sick mother’s oversized cleaning apron—but the second she whispered, “My mom couldn’t come today,” the ruthless man who terrified an entire criminal empire suddenly froze. Nobody could have imagined that this tiny child would walk straight through a battlefield of betrayal, or that her innocent words would awaken something inside a man everyone believed had died years ago.

By midnight, Blackwood Estate had turned into a high-stakes arena.

In the west wing’s private hospital, Elena Carter was hooked up to advanced ventilators and antitoxin drips. Dr. Mercer assured me that because she received the antidote in time, she would survive and regain consciousness by morning. Emma was fast asleep in an adjacent private suite, guarded by four of my most lethal bodyguards.

Meanwhile, in the grand study, the fireplace crackled softly.

I sat behind my massive mahogany desk, swirling a glass of neat whiskey.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Raymond stepped into the room. He wore his usual crisp Italian suit, his posture straight, his expression portraying utter loyalty.

"Julian," Raymond said, stepping forward. "Vance said you found a lead on the Bentley bombing? Who was it? Give me a name, and I’ll take care of them personally."

I took a slow sip of whiskey, not looking up at him.

"It's funny, Raymond," I said quietly. "For seven days, I looked for an enemy outside my walls. I raided rival warehouses. I threatened the Valenti mob. I thought someone had breached my perimeter."

Raymond nodded solemnly. "The Valentis are vicious, Boss. It had to be them."

"No," I replied, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "It wasn't the Valentis. It was someone who had access to my personal garage. Someone who knew my exact schedule."

Raymond’s eyes flickered, just for a millisecond, but to a man raised in the mafia, that fraction of a second was a confession.

"Julian, what are you saying?" Raymond asked, his hand casually drifting toward the inner lining of his jacket.

"I'm saying," I said, rising slowly from my chair, "that a four-year-old girl wearing an oversized cleaning apron walked through my front gate tonight."

Raymond froze. The color drained from his face as if he had been struck by lightning.

"She brought me her mother's resume," I continued, stepping around the desk. "And she brought me this."

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the solid silver crowned-raven cufflink, and tossed it onto the desk between us. It rolled across the polished wood, stopping right under the firelight.

Raymond looked at the cufflink. His breathing grew heavy.

"She saw you, Raymond," I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Elena Carter saw you attaching the C4 under my car. And when you realized she knew, you went to her home and poisoned her tea."

Raymond knew it was over.

With blinding speed, he pulled his concealed firearm—

BANG!

A bullet tore through Raymond's wrist before he could even line up his shot. He screamed in pain, dropping his gun as blood splattered across the Persian rug.

Vance stepped out from behind the velvet curtains, his silenced pistol smoking.

"You sold me out to the Valenti family, didn't you?" I asked, looking down at the traitor writhing on the floor.

"They... they offered me fifty million!" Raymond gasped, holding his shattered wrist. "They offered me control of the North End ports! You were getting soft, Julian! You were spending too much time playing politics!"

"Soft?" I chuckled darkly. I bent down, grabbed Raymond by his collar, and dragged his face inches from mine. "You poisoned an innocent mother and left a child to starve. That isn't business, Raymond. That's cowardice."