Blood was drying on my cuff when I walked into my Chicago penthouse at 1:43 a.m., but the violence I'd left behind was nothing compared with what waited inside my own home. Before I could touch the lights, my housekeeper stepped from the darkness and whispered, “Don't make a sound,” then showed me why my fiancée had spent eleven weeks terrifying my children and why losing my temper was exactly what she needed.

Our black SUV rolled through the security gates without stopping, the guards recognizing my vehicle and waving us through under the assumption that I was arriving to celebrate the finalized guardianship papers.

Naomi sat in the passenger seat, her laptop open, monitoring a live feed of federal tactical units taking up positions along the perimeter of the estate.

“Remember,” Naomi cautioned without looking up from her screen, “Patrick’s private security detail is armed, and he’s surrounded by at least a dozen loyal enforcers. If this goes sideways, we don't shoot our way out—we let the feds breach the moment I send the signal.”

“I didn't come here to start a war, Naomi,” I said, adjusting the cuffs of my fresh white shirt. “I came to collect a debt.”

The SUV slid to a halt in front of the grand portico. A valet in a crisp gray uniform rushed over to open my door, but I waved him off and stepped out onto the cobblestone drive alone, while Naomi remained in the vehicle coordinating the tactical net.

The double mahogany doors of the mansion were already swinging open before I reached the top of the steps.

Patrick Sloane stood in the entryway, a glass of amber whiskey in his hand, a smug, triumphant smile plastered across his weathered face. He looked like a man who had just won a multi-million-dollar poker game holding a royal flush.

“Roman, my boy!” Patrick boomed, stepping forward to clasp my shoulder in a heavy, paternal grip. “I was wondering when you’d get here. Arthur called me ten minutes ago saying the papers were signed and sealed. Come in, come in! Camille is inside pouring champagne for the inner circle.”

I stepped past him into the vaulted foyer, taking in the expensive art, the marble columns, and the sickeningly cheerful sound of classical music drifting from the formal parlor.

“Where is Camille?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm.

“Right through here,” Patrick said, chuckling as he led me toward the parlor doors. “Stop looking so grim, Roman. Business is business, and family is family. Once you marry Camille and those children are legally integrated into our household, we’ll control ninety percent of the port traffic on the southern lake. You’ll never have to worry about a dock strike or a federal investigator again.”

He pushed open the double doors to the parlor.

Around a marble-topped table sat half a dozen men—corrupt politicians, high-priced fixers, and syndicate captains—alongside Camille, who was laughing brightly as she clinked champagne flutes with a city councilman.

When she saw me standing in the doorway, her smile widened into a radiant, predatory beam. She set her glass down and glided across the room toward me, her silk dress rustling softly.

“Darling!” Camille purred, reaching up to stroke my lapel. “Arthur said you signed everything. Finally decided to be a sensible father, did you? The children will be so much better off under our unified care.”

The room went quiet. The politicians and capos turned their attention toward us, expecting a celebratory speech, a toast to the new dynasty.

Instead, I reached slowly into my inner breast pocket, pulled out a thick manila envelope, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a heavy, definitive thud.

Camille frowned, her hand dropping from my lapel. “What is that?”

Patrick’s smile flickered, a sudden shadow crossing his eyes. “Roman? What’s the meaning of this?”

“That,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence of the room like a razor blade, “is the complete unedited audit of every financial transaction, threat, and abusive act you and Arthur Velez orchestrated over the last eleven weeks.”

Camille’s face went chalk white. “You’re—you’re insane. You don't know what you’re talking about—!”

“I know everything, Camille,” I interrupted, stepping forward until I towered over her. “I know about the micro-cameras in the nursery. I know about the psychological torture you inflicted on an eight-year-old boy and a five-year-old girl. I know about the forged guardianship papers designed to steal my children the moment I was eliminated.”

Panic flared in Camille’s eyes. She spun around toward her father, her voice rising in hysteria. “Daddy! He’s lying! He’s unstable—he’s making it all up!”

Patrick Sloane slammed his whiskey glass down onto the table, liquor splashing over the rim. He stepped up to me, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated menace.

“You arrogant little punk,” Patrick snarled, jabbing a thick finger into my chest. “You think you can walk into my house and throw accusations around? You’re standing in my territory! If you think a few forged documents or angry words are going to—!”

Before he could finish his sentence, the heavy oak doors of the parlor burst open with a resounding crash.

Federal tactical gear, ballistic shields, and black helmets flooded the room in a disciplined wave of overwhelming force. Automated weapons clicked as they locked onto targets, and a dozen federal agents swarmed the perimeter, pinning Patrick’s bodyguards to the floor before they could even reach their shoulder holsters.

Naomi stepped through the breach, her federal badge gleaming proudly on her chest, her expression cold and absolute.

“Patrick Sloane, Camille Romano—excuse me, Sloane,” Naomi said clearly, reading from a warrant as she strode across the Persian rug. “You are under arrest for federal racketeering, conspiracy to commit child abuse, interstate extortion, and fraudulent asset seizure.”

Patrick turned purple with rage, struggling against two federal agents who slammed him against the marble mantelpiece. “You can't do this! Do you know who I am?! I own half the judges in this state!”

“Not anymore you don't,” Naomi said smoothly, snapping the handcuffs onto his wrists. “Your judges just lost their campaign financing.”

Camille shrieked, backing away until she hit the wall, her designer dress trembling around her knees as federal agents cornered her. “No! This isn't happening! Roman, you can't do this to me! I’m your fiancée!”