My maid’s eight-month-old baby crawled into my office while my enforcer was holding a gun on a traitor, but instead of reacting like the ruthless Mafia Boss everyone feared, I dropped to my knees and cried. The baby had the same eyes, dark curls, and face as the son I had buried three years earlier.

The glass in the tall arched windows of my study vibrated as the muffled roar of heavy SUV engines echoed across the manicured lawns of the estate.

Marco Rossi hadn't come under the cover of night like a thief. He had come with the loud, brazen arrogance of a man who believed he held all the cards, driving through my front gates with twenty heavily armed mercenaries in tow.

Elena let out a sharp, terrified shriek, instinctively retreating toward the corner of the room near the fireplace.

“Dominic,” I said. My voice was no longer that of a grieving father; it was the icy, lethal command of the Don.

“Boss?”

“Take Elena and Leo down to the reinforced vault beneath the wine cellar,” I ordered smoothly. “Seal the iron doors from the inside. Activate the secondary oxygen scrubbers. Nobody opens those doors except me. If anyone else attempts to touch the keypad, blow the charge in the corridor.”

Dominic didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. He stepped over to Elena, taking her arm firmly but gently. “Move, girl. Now.”

Elena looked at me, her eyes wide with terror as she reached out toward her baby. “Mr. Moretti... please—”

I stepped forward, carefully transferring the sleeping infant into her trembling arms. As I handed him over, Leo stirred briefly, his dark eyes fluttering open to look at me one last time before his little head nestled back against Elena’s shoulder.

I reached out, my thumb softly tracing the crescent birthmark on his neck.

“He stays alive, Elena,” I said quietly into her ear. “No matter what happens out there today. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” she sobbed, holding the baby with a desperate, iron grip.

Dominic led her out through the hidden panel behind the bookcase, the heavy wood sliding shut with a dull, metallic click that echoed through the room.

I was alone.

I turned back toward my desk. The floor was still littered with broken glass and spilled scotch. Lorenzo was locked in the sub-basement below. My underboss was securing my child in the vault. And my oldest enemy was advancing up my driveway with a small army.

I didn't feel fear. I didn't feel stress.

For three years, I had walked through life like a ghost, waiting for a bullet or a knife to finally end my miserable existence. I had fought wars out of habit, maintained my territory out of duty, and executed traitors out of necessity.

Now, for the first time in thirty-six months, I had something to fight for. I had a reason to tear the world apart.

I walked behind my desk, opened the lower right drawer, and lifted out a heavy steel key.

I stepped across the rug to the dark walnut paneling beside the fireplace. I inserted the key into a hidden keyhole beneath the carved mantelpiece and turned it twice to the left.

The paneling hissed softly, sliding back to reveal a concealed weapons armory built into the brick foundation of the house.

Inside hung neatly arranged rows of tactical gear: custom-fitted Kevlar body armor, silenced submachine guns, combat shotguns, and automated explosive charges.

I stripped off my tailored suit jacket, letting it fall onto the floorboards. I pulled on a black tactical vest, tightening the side straps until the heavy plates pressed snugly against my ribs. I picked up a customized Heckler & Koch MP5K submachine gun, slapped a thirty-round magazine into the magwell, and racked the charging handle back with a sharp, satisfying CLACK.

I slid two spare magazines into my vest pouches, drew a heavy, silver-plated .45 caliber Colt M1911 from the rack, and holstered it at my right hip.

A sudden, thunderous explosion shook the entire mansion.

The heavy front oak doors of the grand foyer—two hundred yards down the east corridor—were blown off their iron hinges by a breaching charge. The shockwave rattled the crystal chandeliers in my study, sending dust cascading down from the decorative ceiling moldings.

Automatic gunfire instantly erupted in the main hallway.

The rhythmic, heavy thumping of my guards’ weapons clashed with the high-pitched, rapid chatter of the mercenaries’ suppressed rifles. Screams, breaking marble, and the shatter of stained glass filled the air as the house erupted into a warzone.

I didn't run toward the fight. I didn't need to.

I walked out of my study into the grand hallway, stepping over the threshold into the dim, smoke-filled corridor.

Through the haze of plaster dust and gunpowder, I saw them.

Six men wearing dark tactical uniforms, helmets, and night-vision goggles were advancing up the grand staircase. At the rear of the formation, standing casually near the marble banister with a gold-tipped cane in his right hand, was Marco Rossi.

He was fifty years old, thin, with silvering hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, wearing a tailored navy wool coat over a silk shirt. He held an unlit cigar between his teeth, watching his men storm my house as if he were attending an afternoon opera.

“Dante!” Marco’s voice echoed up the staircase, amplified by the high marble ceilings. “Come out, Dante! Let’s not make this messy!”

I stepped out from behind a heavy marble pillar at the top of the stairs, framing myself against the light of the arched window behind me.

The three lead mercenaries spotted me instantly, raising their assault rifles toward my chest.