I thought leaving Elena was the only way to protect the woman I loved, until a hospital called and revealed she was starving, pregnant with my baby, and being hurt by someone inside my own family.

The ballroom was absolute chaos.

High-society women were tripping over their silk trains, tripping through scattered canapés, scrambling toward the exit doors only to find them blocked by Leo and Viktor, whose submachine guns were now unholstered and resting casually against their thighs. The message was unmistakable: nobody leaves until I say so.

In the center of the carnage, I held my sister suspended in the air by her throat, my grip iron-tight, steady, and devoid of a single ounce of mercy.

“Luke... please...” Sophie choked out, her fingernails digging frantically into the skin of my wrist, drawing small beads of blood. Her eyes bulged, filled with genuine, unmitigated terror as the reality of her mortality finally set in. “I’m... your sister... don't...”

“My sister died the moment she decided to starve an innocent woman and murder my unborn child,” I said, my voice cutting through her gasps like a butcher's cleaver.

With a sudden, violent twist, I hurled her backward.

Sophie crashed down hard onto a heavy mahogany banquet table, shattering crystal glassware, knocking over silver chafing dishes, and sliding off onto the polished marble floor in a crumpled heap of emerald silk and broken glass. She coughed violently, clutching her throat, gasping in lungfuls of air while tears and mascara streamed down her face.

I stepped over the shattered remains of a crystal punch bowl, crouched down, and grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair, yanking her head back so she had no choice but to look directly into my eyes.

“You’re going to talk to me, Sophie,” I said quietly, the stillness of my tone far more terrifying than any shout. “And you’re going to give me every single detail. Who else is involved? Is Moretti funding this directly, or is there someone inside my own inner circle feeding information to him?”

Sophie whimpered, her body trembling violently from shock and pain. She looked around the empty, terrified room, realizing with crushing finality that none of her high-society friends, none of her wealthy allies, and none of Moretti’s ghost soldiers were going to save her from the wrath of Luke Mercer.

“It... it wasn't just me,” she sobbed, her voice raspy and broken.

My eyes narrowed. “Name them.”

“Salvatore Moretti... he approached me six months ago,” she confessed, her words tumbling out in a panicked, desperate rush. “He knew you were slipping. He knew that keeping Elena around was your one true weakness. He said if we could isolate her, break her spirit, and force a miscarriage, you would lose your focus during the upcoming dock negotiations.”

“And who inside my organization helped you?” I pressed, tightening my grip on her hair just enough to remind her of where she was. “Moretti doesn't know my security routines. He doesn't know the exact location of the Queens safehouse unless someone on my payroll handed him the keys.”

Sophie hesitated, her eyes darting toward the shadows near the entrance of the ballroom.

I followed her gaze instantly.

Marco was standing near the door, his face impassive, his arms crossed over his chest. But something in the tilt of his head—something in the rigid posture of his shoulders—triggered an alarm bell deep inside my tactical instincts.

I slowly released my grip on Sophie’s hair, standing up to my full height, and turned to face my head of security.

“Marco,” I said softly, the single word hanging in the air like a loaded gun.

Marco didn't flinch. He slowly uncrossed his arms, letting his hands rest naturally at his sides, dangerously close to his shoulder holsters.

“You knew,” I stated, the realization hitting me with the force of a tidal wave. It wasn't just Sophie. The rot went deeper than I ever could have imagined. “You knew about Moretti’s meetings with Sophie. You were the one who authorized the transfer of Elena to that safehouse in the first place, weren't you?”

The ballroom fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Even Sophie stopped crying, looking back and forth between the two of us with wide, terrified eyes.

Marco let out a slow, heavy breath, shaking his head slightly.

“I didn't want Elena killed, Boss,” Marco said, his voice completely devoid of fear, carrying only a heavy, weary resignation. “That was Sophie’s twisted idea. My job—the job I’ve executed faithfully for twelve years—was to force you to choose.”

“Choose between what?” I hissed, taking a slow step toward him, my hand resting on the grip of my SIG Sauer.

“Between your empire and your weakness,” Marco replied, meeting my glare with unwavering, cold resolve. “A king who is shackled to a civilian woman, a woman carrying a child that will dilute his bloodline and create a target on his back for the rest of his natural life, is a weak king. Moretti offered a partnership. A merger of the two greatest syndicates on the East Coast. All it required was cutting away the dead weight.”

“Elena was never dead weight,” I whispered, the rage inside me reaching a boiling point where it threatened to consume my entire consciousness.

“To you, no,” Marco said. “To the survival of the Mercer dynasty? Yes. And that is why I let Sophie use the Queens safehouse. That is why I delayed the medical reports until tonight. I thought... I truly believed that if Elena didn't make it, you would harden your heart, take your rightful place at the head of a unified empire, and thank me for doing the dirty work you lacked the stomach to finish yourself.”

I drew my pistol.

The metallic click of the slide racking back echoed sharply through the grand ballroom.

Viktor and Leo immediately raised their weapons, pivoting to aim directly at Marco, their faces carved from stone. They had served under Marco for years, but loyalty to the Boss was the absolute, unyielding law of the Mercer syndicate.

“You miscalculated, Marco,” I said, raising the barrel until it was pointed squarely between his eyes. “You thought you knew what was best for my family. But you forgot one fundamental rule.”

Marco stared down the barrel of the gun without a single flinch. He didn't try to draw his own weapon. He didn't try to run.