THE MAFIA BOSS’S BRIDE-TO-BE ORDERED ME TO HIDE HIS SEVENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD FORMER BUTLER IN THE SCULLERY—BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HIM TO THE BANQUET TABLE, DAMIAN BLACKWOOD STOOD UP AND SAID, “MR. HARRINGTON? I SEARCHED FOR YOUR GRAVE FOR A DECADE.”

The penthouse on 57th Street was a sprawling, glass-walled palace overlooking the sparkling skyline of Manhattan—a residence that Vincent Thorne had purchased five years ago to project his family’s immense wealth and influence.

Tonight, however, the opulent residence was completely surrounded. Four Blackwood security SUVs blocked the street below, while Marcus and six tactical operators held the private elevator vestibule on the eighty-second floor.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Damian and I stepped out onto the polished white marble foyer, accompanied by Thomas Harrington.

The double doors leading into the penthouse’s grand salon were standing wide open. Inside, the room was in absolute disarray. Designer suitcases lay half-packed on the Italian leather couches, jewelry boxes were tipped over, diamond necklaces and gold watches scattered across the hardwood floors like discarded toys.

Sitting on the floor in the center of the vast, glass-walled living room, clutching a crystal bottle of vintage scotch, was Seraphina Thorne.

Her black mourning dress was wrinkled and stained, her bare feet bruised, and her hair hung in tangled, wild strands around her pale face. When she heard our footsteps, she slowly lifted her head.

Her bloodshot blue eyes locked onto Damian, then shifted to me, and finally settled on Harrington.

“You brought the help to watch my execution, Damian?” Seraphina rasped, her voice rough and cracked from hours of screaming and drinking. “How romantic.”

Damian stopped ten paces away, his hands resting casually in his slacks pockets. “You’re not being executed, Seraphina. That would be too merciful for what you did to this family.”

Seraphina let out a shrill, hysterical laugh, taking a long swig directly from the scotch bottle. “What I did?! I did what anyone in our world does! We take! We conquer! You were going to marry me, Damian! We would have ruled this entire country together! You were willing to give me everything until this... this filthy scullery maid walked in with that ancient corpse!”

She pointed a trembling, manicured finger at me, her face contorting with venomous rage.

“Look at her! She used to pick up my dirty towels! She used to polish my shoes! And you’re giving her my throne?!”

I stepped forward, closing the distance between us until I stood right above her. I looked down at the woman who had spent nine months treating me like dirt, who had threatened to throw my grandmother into the street, and who had tried to poison the man I loved.

“This was never your throne, Seraphina,” I said calmly, my voice steady and completely devoid of anger. “You thought this house belonged to whoever had the sharpest claws and the most expensive lawyers. But this house belongs to the people who built it with their blood.”

I reached down and picked up an open velvet folder lying beside her suitcase. Inside were forged adoption papers, offshore deed transfers, and a signed confession from the private locksmith who had tampered with Arthur’s study safe.

“You didn't just want the Blackwood wealth,” I said, reading through the documents. “You planned to have Damian declared mentally incompetent through the nightshade toxin, take legal conservatorship over his estate, and then eliminate your own father to keep the entire fortune for yourself.”

Damian’s jaw hardened, his eyes narrowing as he heard the final piece of Seraphina’s treacherous puzzle. Even in the ruthless underworld of the syndicates, planning the assassination of one’s own father to seize solitary power was an atrocity beyond comprehension.

Seraphina sneered, showing her teeth like a cornered animal. “My father was a weak, sentimental old fool! He waited ten years to make a move! I was the one who had the courage to finish it!”

“You didn't finish anything,” Damian said, stepping up beside me and taking my hand. “You destroyed yourself.”

Damian turned toward Marcus, who stood waiting at the threshold of the salon. “Marcus. The federal marshals are waiting in the lobby. Hand her over. Ensure that all evidence regarding her patricidal conspiracy is included in the indictment.”

Two federal marshals stepped out from the hallway, presenting an arrest warrant for attempted capital murder, corporate fraud, and syndicate treason.

As the marshals pulled Seraphina to her feet and snapped steel handcuffs around her wrists, she began to scream hysterically, thrashing against their grip.

“Damian! No! You can’t do this to me! I am a Thorne! I am royalty in this city!”

She turned her desperate, pleading eyes toward Harrington. “Harrington! Tell them! You know what my family did for this syndicate! Tell him to let me go!”

Thomas Harrington looked at her, his expression carrying the profound, sorrowful weight of a man who had seen generations of greedy, arrogant souls destroy themselves.

“Miss Thorne,” Harrington said quietly, his aristocratic voice echoing through the glass penthouse. “A true lady knows how to honor the house that shelters her. You ordered me to be hidden in the scullery with stale biscuits. Now, you shall spend the rest of your days eating prison rations in a concrete cell. Good evening, Miss Thorne.”

Seraphina’s screams faded down the hallway as the marshals escorted her into the elevator, the heavy steel doors sliding shut with a final, decisive thud.

The penthouse fell completely silent. The lights of Manhattan glittered through the panoramic glass windows, stretching out toward the horizon like an endless carpet of gold and silver.

Damian walked over to the glass, looking out over the city he had defended with his life. He turned to me, his dark eyes glowing with a warmth and peace I had never seen in him before.