Her voice came down the marble like broken glass. *Get out of my house.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, the heavy iron gates at the bottom of the estate drive swung open.

Two black sports cars roared up the gravel drive, kicking up dust and dry autumn leaves.

Marcus Moretti, thirty years old, stepped out of the first car. He was broad-shouldered, carrying the quiet authority of an Underboss, wearing a dark suit.

Dante Moretti, twenty-six, stepped out of the second car. He was sharper, leaner, with restless eyes and a reputation for volatile violent outbursts.

Inside the grand foyer, Isabella was already waiting for them, pacing back and forth near the entrance.

"Marcus! Dante!" Isabella cried out, rushing toward her step-sons as they entered the hall. "Thank God you’re here! Your father has lost his mind!"

Marcus paused, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "What are you talking about, Isabella?"

"He brought a maid and her child into the master wing!" she shrieked, waving her diamond-encrusted hands. "He claims the brat is Julian’s daughter! He’s going to alter the family trust!"

Dante let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "A maid's kid? Julian's been dead six years. Father is just losing his head because he misses his favorite son."

"Watch your tongue, Dante," Marcus warned coldly, turning toward his younger brother. "If Father says she’s Julian’s, there’s a reason."

"I don't care if she's the Queen of England," Dante sneered, stepping past Marcus toward the stairs. "No street brat is taking a cut of my territory."

"Dante," a deep voice boomed from the landing above.