Every beautiful woman in Chicago had tried to capture the attention of the city's most feared mafia boss, and every one of them had failed. Then I accidentally sang an old lullaby while cleaning his penthouse, and the most dangerous man I had ever met froze like he had seen a ghost.

Three weeks passed.

Life inside the penthouse was a strange, luxurious blur. Mateo’s health improved dramatically; his cough vanished, his cheeks gained color, and Vincenzo hired private tutors who were helping him prepare for college applications.

I spent my days reading on the sunny terrace, practicing the piano in the music parlor Vincenzo had unlocked for me, and trying to get used to having servants cook my meals and wash my clothes.

It was a cage, but it was made of pure gold and silk.

Yet, the tension in the city was mounting.

Vincenzo was rarely home during the day. The war with the Moretti syndicate hadn't ended with Donato's surrender; Donato's hot-headed thirty-two-year-old nephew, Gianni Moretti, had refused to honor his uncle's capitulation. Gianni was gathering loyalists in the South Side, burning Russo-owned warehouses, and threatening an all-out bloodbath on the streets of Chicago.

One evening, Vincenzo hosted a private dinner at the penthouse for his top lieutenants to secure their loyalty before launching a final strike against Gianni's faction.

I was told to stay in my room, but by 9:00 PM, I was restless. I walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward the private kitchen to get a glass of warm milk.

As I passed the closed double doors of the formal dining room, low, furious voices carried through the wood.

"We can't wait any longer, Vincenzo!" Marco’s voice barked. "Gianni hit our transport on Interstate 55 an hour ago. Two of our boys are dead. He's reckless, he's crazy, and he's using the Irish mob in Boston to fund his ammunition!"

"I am aware of the Irish connection, Marco," Vincenzo’s voice responded, calm and terrifyingly cold. "Gianni is digging his own grave."

"There's more, Boss," another voice spoke—a younger lieutenant named Leo, whom I had seen around the penthouse a few times. "Gianni put out a five-million-dollar bounty on your head. But he isn't just looking for you."

Silence fell over the room.

"Speak, Leo," Vincenzo commanded flatly.

"He knows about the girl," Leo said nervously. "Someone in our camp leaked her name. Gianni knows Lucia Marino is your cousin. He offered an extra million to whoever brings her to him alive."

Inside the hallway, my heart slammed against my ribs. Blood roared in my ears.

A traitor in our camp.

Before I could back away, a sudden, heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind.

I tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against a thick, leather-gloved palm. A iron-strong arm wrapped around my waist, dragging me backward into the dark service alcove near the linen closets.

I thrashed violently, kicking my feet, my nails digging into the rough leather of my attacker's arm.

"Shut up, little bird," a cold voice sneered in my ear.

It was Leo.

The lieutenant who had just been speaking in the dining room thirty seconds ago was now holding me pinned against the wall in the dark service corridor, a suppressed pistol pressed hard against my ribs.

My eyes widened in sheer horror as I realized the sickening truth.

Leo hadn't just reported the leak—he was the leak.

"Gianni paid me two million upfront just to give him the layout of this penthouse," Leo whispered, his hot, sour breath smelling of garlic and cheap gin. "And bringing you to him gets me another three. You're my ticket out of this city, sweet cheeks."

He began dragging me toward the service elevator at the end of the hall—the one exit that bypassed the main security monitors.

I knew if I let him drag me into that elevator, I was dead. Mateo was dead. Vincenzo was dead.

Panic gave me a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline.

Instead of pulling away, I slammed my head backward with everything I had. My skull cracked hard against Leo's nose.

CRACK.

Leo groaned in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second as blood spurted from his broken nose.

"VINCENZO!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, my voice echoing off the concrete walls of the service corridor. "VINCENZO!"

"Shut up, you bitch!" Leo snarled, lunging forward, raising the heavy iron butt of his pistol to strike my head.

BANG.

The service corridor exploded with thunderous sound.

Leo froze. His eyes rolled back into his head, a neat round hole appearing in the center of his forehead. He collapsed backward onto the cold tiles like a sack of wet flour, his pistol skittering across the floor.

Behind him stood Vincenzo.

He was holding a smoking, heavy-caliber revolver, his face pale with pure, unadulterated fury. Behind him, Marco and four guards rushed into the narrow hallway, weapons raised.

Vincenzo dropped his weapon to his side and sprinted toward me.

Before I could sink to my knees in shock, his broad arms wrapped around me, pulling me up against his chest, holding me so tightly I could feel the violent, frantic pounding of his heart against my ribs.

"Lucia," he choked out, his voice shaking—a sound of absolute, desperate panic that I had never imagined the feared mafia boss capable of making. "Lucia, look at me. Are you hurt? Did he touch you?"

"I'm... I'm okay," I sobbed, burying my face in the crook of his neck, smelling the sandalwood and tobacco, clinging to him like a lifeline. "He... he was going to take me to Gianni..."

Vincenzo pressed his cheek against my hair, his chest heaving as he rocked me gently in the dark corridor.

"No one touches you," Vincenzo swore into my hair, his voice vibrating with a dark, lethal promise that made the air itself tremble. "No one."

He looked over my shoulder at Marco, his dark eyes turning into pure, burning fire.

"Marco," Vincenzo ordered softly.