The most feared mafia boss in Chicago came home three hours early and found his housekeeper secretly feeding four identical little boys at the dining table no one had touched since his wife died. He was about to demand an explanation when one boy pointed at him and asked, “Elena, is that the man from the picture?” The spoon fell from her hand.

By eight o'clock that evening, the Moretti estate had transformed into an armed fortress.

Fifty of my most loyal enforcers, dressed in heavy tactical armor and holding military-grade rifles, patrolled the perimeter walls. High-powered floodlights swept across the manicured lawns, illuminating the dark treeline surrounding the property.

Inside the grand dining room, where hours earlier Elena had been feeding yellow rice to my four hidden sons, a massive tactical map of Chicago was spread across the long mahogany table.

Sitting around the table were my four top captains: Marco, who controlled the South Side distribution channels; Tony "The Hammer" Valetti, who managed our dock enforcement teams; Frank Rossi, our chief financial strategist; and Carmela Moretti, my late father's younger sister, a ruthless sixty-year-old woman who commanded our intelligence network.

The four boys and Elena were resting upstairs in my primary master suite—the most heavily fortified room in the building, protected by two inches of ballistic steel lining the walls and four armed guards stationed outside the heavy oak door.

"Boss," Tony Valetti said, slamming his heavy fist onto the table. "Just give the word. I'll take forty guys to Dominic Vance's estate in Lake Forest right now and flatten the place. We'll hang him from the pier!"

"No," Carmela cut in, her sharp, cold voice instantly silencing the table. She pulled a slender white cigar from her silver case and lit it calmly. "Dominic isn't just a street boss, Tony. He’s a sitting United States Senator. He has a federal diplomatic detail protecting his primary residence, and he’s hosting the Annual Mid-West Political Gala at the Drake Hotel tonight. If we attack his estate or storm a public venue with forty armed men, the FBI will drop a full federal blockade on our family by sunrise."

"Carmela's right," Frank Rossi agreed, tapping his pen against a stack of financial documents. "Dominic has spent five years building a political narrative that he’s tough on organized crime. If we give him a public shootout, he’ll use it as an excuse to declare a state of emergency, seize our commercial port assets, and bring in the National Guard."

I stood at the head of the table, staring down at the map of Chicago. I hadn't changed out of my suit. The bloodstain on my cuff from the mercenary in the foyer had dried into a dark, rusty brown mark.

"Dominic doesn't want a public war," I said, my voice carrying a low, dangerous rumble that made every captain in the room pay strict attention. "If he wanted a public war, he wouldn't have sent twelve unmarked mercenaries to my house while he thought I was downtown. He wanted the boys dead quietly so he could maintain his clean political image."

"He thinks he failed because of your security detail," Marco added. "He doesn't know you spoke to Elena. He doesn't know you know about the children's true identity."

"Then we use his arrogance against him," I said, leaning over the table with both palms pressed against the wood. "Dominic’s entire power base relies on three things: his political immunity, his control over the waterfront federal inspectors, and his private offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands where he stores his money-laundering cuts."

I looked up at Frank Rossi. "Frank, how much liquid capital does Dominic have tied up in the Great Lakes Maritime Holding company?"

"Over four hundred million dollars," Frank answered instantly. "It’s the master shell company he uses to clear his illegal arms trade. But those accounts are locked behind three-factor biometric encryption servers located inside the vault of the Federal Commerce Bank on LaSalle Street."

"He accesses those servers every Tuesday night during the political gala," Carmela revealed, blowing a long ring of blue smoke toward the ceiling. "It’s his routine. While the politicians and donors are sipping champagne in the ballroom of The Drake, Dominic slips into the private executive suite on the ninth floor to clear his weekly wire transfers."

A slow, terrifying smile touched the corners of my mouth.

"Then that's where we take him," I said.

"Boss," Marco cautioned, leaning in. "The Drake Hotel will be crawling with Secret Service, private security, and high-profile guests tonight. How do we get inside without triggering a city-wide lockdown?"

"We don't go in as an army, Marco," I said, turning my eyes toward the grand staircase where my four young sons were sleeping peacefully under the care of Elena. "We go in as ghosts."

I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out the satellite phone I had taken from the dead mercenary’s tactical vest in the foyer.

"Tony," I commanded. "Take twenty men and secure the private airstrip in Gary, Indiana. Dominic’s escape jet is parked in Hangar Four. I want that plane disabled before nine o'clock."

"Consider it done, Boss," Tony growled, grinning wickedly as he stood up from the table.

"Frank," I continued. "Initiate an emergency short-sell on all Great Lakes Maritime stock options through our offshore accounts in London. When Dominic’s servers go dark tonight, I want his corporate holdings to drop to zero in fifteen minutes."

"I'm on it," Frank nodded, opening his laptop.

"And Marco?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

"Gear up six of our best men," I said, picking up my Sig Sauer from the table and checking the sight alignment. "You and I are going to the party."

Carmela looked at me, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "And what about your sons, Alejandro? If Dominic realizes he’s trapped, he might send a second hit squad here while you're at The Drake."

"Nobody is getting near this house, Aunt Carmela," I replied quietly. "Because you are going to stay here with thirty enforcers, two fifty-caliber mounted rifles on the roof, and strict orders to execute anyone who crosses the perimeter gate without my voice authorization."

Carmela smiled—a terrifying, predatory expression that showed every one of her porcelain teeth. "I've been waiting fifteen years for an excuse to shoot one of Dominic Vance’s men, nephew. Leave the house to me."

I turned away from the table and walked slowly up the grand marble staircase toward my master suite.

I pushed the heavy oak door open gently.

Inside, the room was soft and quiet. The four identical little boys were sleeping soundly across the vast expanse of my king-sized bed, wrapped in warm silk blankets. Elena was sitting in an armchair nearby, gently folding a stack of small blue shirts.

I walked over to the side of the bed, kneeling down beside Mateo. I reached out, my calloused fingers lightly brushing a lock of dark hair away from his forehead.

He stirred slightly in his sleep, a tiny, contented smile appearing on his face as his little hand reached out and grasped my index finger, holding onto it tightly even in his dreams.

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his small grip.

Sofia, I thought, my heart swelling with an ancient, fierce passion. You hid them to save my life. Now I'm going to finish this war to give them theirs.