A maid hid her baby in a billionaire’s penthouse for three months, until the infant crawled into his office and grabbed his tie.

Three hours later, the quiet inside the penthouse was broken by the sharp, persistent buzzing of the secure satellite telephone resting on the desk in Alessandro’s private office.

The office was a masterpiece of dark mahogany, leather furniture, and bulletproof glass. On the wall behind the desk, three large security monitors displayed live feeds of the building’s exterior, showing armed guards patrolling the private underground garage and the rooftop helipad.

Alessandro sat behind his desk, his black suit jacket draped over the back of his leather armchair. He had rolled up the sleeves of his starched white shirt, revealing the intricate, dark ink covering his forearms.

He picked up the heavy receiver, pressing it against his ear without speaking.

"Alessandro," a harsh, raspy voice boomed over the encrypted line. It was Don Carmine Moretti, the seventy-year-old leader of the New York commission—the man who held the purse strings of the eastern coast crime syndicates. "You disconnected the international summit. You humiliated my representatives in front of the European brokers. What game are you playing in Chicago?"

Alessandro picked up an antique silver lighter, flicking the flame open and shut with a metallic click.

"The conference is over, Carmine," Alessandro replied coldly. "The territory agreement for the Midwest shipping docks is void."

There was a long, suffocating pause on the line. Over the speaker, the sound of heavy, agitated breathing vibrated through the receiver.

"We had a deal, Duca," Carmine growled, his voice laced with venom. "You take the lakes, we take the coast. If you pull out now, the commission will consider it a declaration of war. You don't have the manpower to fight New York and hold your own streets at the same time."

Alessandro leaned back in his leather chair, his dark eyes fixing on the security monitor that displayed the master suite doors, where Marco’s guards stood watch.

"Listen to me very carefully, Carmine," Alessandro said, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly calm whisper that made the old mobster on the other end pause. "Sixteen months ago, my brother Lorenzo vanished in Boston. You told the commission it was an unsanctioned hit by a rogue street gang. You swore your family had no involvement."

Carmine’s tone turned defensive, sharp, and nervous. "Lorenzo’s death was an unfortunate tragedy of street violence! We paid our respects!"

"Lorenzo isn't dead," Alessandro lied with absolute conviction, playing a high-stakes psychological game to protect the baby sleeping down the hall. "He left something behind in Chicago. Something that belongs exclusively to the Duca bloodline. And if a single one of your men crosses the Illinois border, I won't just fight a war, Carmine. I will come to New York personally and burn your entire empire to the ground."