A billionaire mob chief threatened to fire his maid for playing with his daughters, right until his mute child uttered a terrifying accusation.

Dominic ended the call and placed his encrypted phone back into his inner suit pocket. He walked out of the kitchen, his leather shoes clicking steadily against the dark wood floor as he entered his private ground-floor study—a room lined with leather-bound books, heavy mahogany furniture, and floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass looking out over the manicured Long Island estate.

He walked over to his heavy mahogany desk, opened the top right drawer, and retrieved a sleek, unbranded black steel sidearm. He checked the magazine, chambered a round with a sharp, mechanical metallic slide, and rested the weapon flat on the dark leather blotter beside his gold fountain pen.

He stood behind his desk, looking out the window at the late-afternoon sun dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of crimson and violet.

Outside, the three black armored SUVs sat quietly along the cobblestone driveway, their engines purring softly in the cool evening air.

Dominic adjusted his cuffs, his dark, tattooed fingers smooth and steady.

For fourteen months, he had fought an invisible ghost, burning down rival families in a blind search for vengeance, while the true monster lived beneath his own roof, eating at his table, and guarding his children. But today, the silence had been broken. His daughter had given him the key to the dark, and he would not rest until every single person involved in Isabella's death was eradicated from the face of the earth.

A soft, polite knock echoed at the heavy oak study door.