Dante Moretti had signed a hundred contracts without lifting his eyes from the page. He was forty-two, boss of all bosses of the five eastern families, and no man in a room spoke until he spoke first. Then the cook's daughter walked into his study — three years old, one ribbon lost, a gray stuffed cat crushed against her chest — and said it out loud. *Your fiancée is a thief.* He did not shout. He did not move for three full seconds. He let the ink bleed across the signature he had almost finished. And when the room was empty again, he went to a drawer that only two living men knew existed, and found the bronze seal sitting three millimeters to the left of where it had sat that morning. Children say foolish things. In the Moretti family, no sentence — not even one spoken by a child — is ever ignored twice.

The day before the wedding, the estate was a masterpiece of lethal deception.

Massive white tents covered the rolling green lawns. Thousands of imported roses scented the damp autumn air. But beneath the velvet and silk, the trap was meticulously being set.

Dante walked the perimeter with Silvio, disguised as a casual stroll.

"The metal detectors at the front gates have been intentionally disabled," Silvio murmured, barely moving his lips. "We want the Bratva to bring their weapons inside. It gives us the justification for self-defense when the shooting starts."

"What about our men?" Dante asked, keeping his eyes on the decorators hanging fairy lights.

"We have forty hitters stationed in the basement armory," Silvio confirmed. "They are armed with suppressed submachine guns. When you give the signal, they will come up through the service elevators and seal the ballroom exits. The windows are bulletproof glass; nobody is breaking out."

"Good," Dante said softly. "I want Victoria isolated when the chaos begins. She is mine to deal with."

As they turned back toward the mansion, Dante saw Elena standing on the kitchen loading dock, signing for a delivery of fresh seafood. She looked exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, but she still smiled warmly at the delivery driver.

Dante stopped, his chest tightening with an unexpected, heavy surge of protectiveness. He had spent his entire life building walls of ice around his heart to survive the syndicate, but the quiet, terrified cook had somehow slipped right through the cracks.

"Silvio," Dante said without looking away from Elena. "When the shooting starts tomorrow, I want you personally guarding the kitchen corridor. If a single stray bullet comes within fifty feet of Elena or Sophia, I will hold you personally responsible."

Silvio followed Dante's gaze. The old enforcer smiled faintly, a knowing look in his scarred eyes. "I will guard them with my life, Boss. You have my word."

Dante nodded and continued walking toward the house. He had to go upstairs and pretend to love the woman who was planning his murder. He had to smile at the viper in his bed for one more night.

As he passed the kitchen, Sophia was sitting on the steps, coloring with her crayons.

She looked up at the terrifying mafia boss.

"Uncle Dante," she chirped.

Dante stopped, crouching down to her level. "Yes, little one?"