I was serving dinner when the mafia boss’s silent daughter smelled my perfume, began sobbing, and reached for me like she had been waiting two years to find me.

By 9:00 AM the following morning, the sun broke through the clouds over Long Island, casting a cold, metallic glare over the waters of the bay.

Inside the private glass dining room of the Caruso estate, the air was tense enough to snap a wire.

Elena sat at the long mahogany table, wearing a crisp white blouse and a dark tailored skirt that Marco had procured for her. Sofia sat in a high chair right beside her, happily munching on fresh blueberries, her little hand resting comfortably on Elena’s knee.

Damian sat at the head of the table, going over a series of encrypted blueprints with Luke and Marco.

"Salvatore’s annual charity gala is tonight at the Plaza Hotel," Luke explained, pointing his pen at the layout of the grand ballroom. "Every major boss from the Five Families will be there. The Mayor, the Police Commissioner, the federal prosecutors—they’re all attending."

"It's his fortress," Marco added. "He feels untouchable in that room."

"Good," Damian said, leaning back in his chair, taking a slow sip of black coffee. "Arrogance makes men careless."

Elena looked up from Sofia. "What's the plan, Damian? You can't just walk into the Plaza and shoot the head of the Commission."

"Shooting him is too easy, Elena," Damian said, turning his cold gaze toward her. "If I kill Salvatore in cold blood, the other families will unite against me to avenge a breach of protocol. I don't just need him dead. I need him ruined. I need the entire Commission to see him for the dishonorable snake he is."

"And how do we do that?" she asked.

Damian reached into his jacket, pulled out a flash drive, and tossed it onto the table. "Dr. Vance was a paranoid coward. Before he died, he gave up the location of his private safety deposit box in Manhattan. Inside were original medical logs, video footage from the St. Agnes nursery security grid, and wire transfer receipts from Salvatore’s offshore account in the Caymans paying off your mother and Vance."

Elena’s hand trembled as she looked at the drive. "The proof."

"Everything," Damian confirmed. "Tonight, we drop the curtain."

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors of the dining room burst open.

Four guards rushed inside, their hands on their holsters. Behind them walked a tall, white-haired man in an immaculate navy-blue suit, carrying a silver-topped walking cane. He was seventy, with piercing blue eyes, a manicured mustache, and an aura of absolute, tyrannical authority.

It was Don Salvatore Moretti.

"Damian," Salvatore’s loud, gravelly voice echoed through the high ceilings. "Why are my calls going to secure voicemail? And why the hell is the entrance gate locked to my personal security detail?"

Elena froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She instinctively reached out and pulled Sofia’s high chair closer to her own, her body tensing into a protective barrier.

Salvatore’s sharp eyes swept the room. They passed over Luke, over Marco, and stopped dead on Elena. Then his eyes drifted down to Sofia, who had instantly stopped eating and hidden her face behind Elena’s arm.

"Who is this woman, Damian?" Salvatore asked, his brow furrowing as he took a step forward, tapping his cane against the polished marble floor. "And why is my granddaughter touching a common servant?"