THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE THREATENED TO STRIP MY UNIFORM WHEN I SERVED HIS GUESTS HERB-CRUSTED LAMB—BUT AFTER ONE BITE, MATTEO ROSSI PUT DOWN HIS KNIFE AND ASKED, “WHO CRACKED THE JUNIPER?”

By 1:00 AM, the Rossi estate had transformed from a luxury banquet venue into an armed command fortress.

The sixteen syndicate commanders had been dismissed from the dining room, but none had left the property; they were gathered in the marble-lined courtyard lounge, speaking in hushed, nervous murmurs under the watchful eyes of Matteo’s personal guard. In our world, an internal coup or a broken engagement could mean an immediate territorial war, and every man present was calculating whose side had the larger army.

I sat in the corner of Matteo’s private executive study on the second floor, wrapped in a heavy, charcoal-gray cashmere blanket that Matteo had draped over my shoulders himself.

The scullery uniform was gone. One of the estate’s domestic supervisors had brought me a soft, high-collared cream wool sweater and dark trousers from the private guest suites. Yet my hands still felt the ghostly chill of the mud from the greenhouse, and my nostrils were still filled with the imaginary scent of burning timber from three years ago.

On the massive mahogany desk sat the three ledgers recovered from the safe box, alongside an encrypted tactical laptop connected to the Michigan State Police digital archives.

Matteo stood before the leaded-glass windows, staring out into the rain-drenched gardens where the searchlights cut through the weeping willows.

He held a crystal glass of neat bourbon, but he hadn't taken a single sip.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

Luca entered, holding a thick, red-stamped federal folder.

“Boss,” Luca said, his gravelly voice tight. “Our contact in the Wayne County Arson Division came through. The original 911 dispatch recordings and the unredacted fire marshal reports from December 18, 2021.”

Luca set the folder on the desk, opening it under the glow of the brass banker’s lamp.

“The fire was initiated at 4:14 AM using twenty gallons of industrial-grade accelerant pumped through the basement coal chute,” Luca read from the report. “The exterior exit chains were forged steel, locked with high-security padlocks bearing the stamp of Vance Steel Fabricators. The local arson investigator, Detective Miller, flagged it as premeditated homicide within two hours.”

Matteo slowly turned around, his obsidian eyes narrowing into slits. “And why did the case close forty-eight hours later as an accidental grease fire?”

“Because Senator Thomas Vance personally called the Detroit Police Commissioner at 6:30 AM,” Luca replied, pointing to an attached phone log. “Vance transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from a blind PAC into the commissioner’s re-election campaign fund that very morning. Detective Miller was reassigned to traffic duty, and the physical evidence was incinerated in the municipal depot by Friday.”

I buried my face in my hands, a dry, ragged sob tearing from my throat.

All those years. All those nights I spent lying awake in cold, rat-infested rooms in Cicero and Gary, wondering if I had missed something, wondering if I had somehow failed to save my father.

He had been executed. He had been murdered like a caged animal simply because his dining room sat on four hundred feet of deep-water dock space that a corrupt senator wanted for his shipping containers.

Footsteps moved softly across the Persian rug.

A warm, heavy hand rested on my shoulder, its fingers squeezing with an iron, protective strength that cut through the agonizing cold in my chest.

I looked up through blurred vision.

Matteo was standing over my chair. His face was carved from granite, but his dark eyes were burning with an intensity so fierce, so devastatingly sincere, that it took the breath straight out of my lungs.

“You survived, Chiara,” Matteo whispered, his deep baritone vibrating with ancient Sicilian resolve. “You kept his books. You brought his truth to my house. And I swear to you on the blood of my ancestors, every man who struck a match against your father will answer for it before the sun rises.”

“Matteo,” I choked out, my fingers trembling as I reached out, touching the wool of his sleeve. “Senator Vance controls thirty judges in Cook County. He has federal liaisons in Washington. If you move against him, the High Commission will declare this an unsanctioned territorial war.”

A slow, terrifying smirk touched the corner of Matteo’s chiseled lips.

“The High Commission only respects two things, Chiara: blood and ledgers,” Matteo said softly.

He tapped the thick documents on the desk.