The night my mafia boss covered his Boston mansion with hidden cameras to catch a thief, he expected to see someone stealing from him. Instead, he saw me barefoot in his drawing room, wearing nothing but his oversized white dress shirt, sliding across the polished floor and singing into a wooden spoon like I’d completely lost my mind.

The basement tunnel suddenly felt like a tomb.

My mind raced in frantic circles. My father hadn't been a discredited hack; he had been an honest engineer who refused to bury a murder report. And Julian—fierce, terrifying, calculating Julian—had spent his entire life blaming his own father for a crime committed by the very people his father trusted most.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic click echoed from the drawing room above.

“It’s a trap,” Martin’s voice hissed urgently.

“What are you talking about?” Victor snapped.

“The desk drawer—it wasn't locked five minutes ago,” Martin said, panic cracking his cold exterior. “Julian knows you’re here. He’s down the hall!”

“Then we finish it now,” Victor snarled.

Heavy, hurried footsteps pounded across the floorboards above me. A muffled gunshot cracked through the silence of the mansion, followed by the shattering of expensive glass and the heavy thud of a body hitting the Persian rug.

“No!” I screamed, forgetting all caution.

I threw myself against the locked wrought-iron gate at the base of the tunnel stairs. I rattled the heavy padlock with all my strength, my fingernails scraping against rusted iron.

Upstairs, a deeper, more terrifying sound echoed through the ceiling.

It was Julian’s voice—cold, deadly, and entirely devoid of human mercy.

“Drop the weapon, Victor.”

“Go to hell, Julian,” Victor laughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Your father knew all about the fire. He helped us bury it so the shipping lines wouldn't tank. You think you’re a king? You’re just a cleanup crew for a murderer.”

Bang.