His head of security sprinted across the study to silence a maid's six-year-old daughter, but the mafia don had already spotted the tampered pill bottle.

Before Damian could speak another word, the sound of frantic, stumbling footsteps echoed from the east corridor.

The double doors of the study burst open wider, and Alina Harper practically threw herself into the room.

Alina was in her late twenties, an extraordinarily pretty woman whose beauty was worn down by exhaustion and perpetual anxiety. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a loose, practical knot, stray strands framing her flushed, pale face. She wore the estate’s traditional black-and-white maid’s uniform—a simple, high-collared black cotton dress beneath a starched white apron with deep utility pockets.

She had been in the linen pantry down the hall when she realized the nursery door was ajar.

Her hazel eyes, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror, took in the scene: the most feared mafia boss in New York crouched on the floor, inches from her daughter, holding an object between them while Marcus stood guard with his hand near his weapon.

“Sophia!” Alina’s voice broke on a sharp, terrified gasp.

She rushed forward, her flat rubber-soled shoes slipping slightly on the polished parquetry before she caught herself on the edge of the mahogany desk. Her chest heaved, her face pale as a ghost, convinced that her child had touched something forbidden, broken an irreplaceable antique, or provoked the wrath of the master of the house.

“Sophia, come here! Right now!” Alina pleaded, her voice trembling, reaching out with both hands as if to yank the child back from the edge of a roaring furnace. She turned her desperate, pleading eyes toward Damian, her words tumbling over each other. “Mr. Cross, I am so sorry! I swear to God, I turned my back for thirty seconds to fold the sheets—she knows she isn't supposed to leave the quarters—please, she’s only six, she didn't mean to—"

Damian did not flinch. He didn't even look up at Alina.

He slowly rose to his full height, his broad shoulders blocking out the morning sun, towering over both the mother and the child. He kept his left hand raised, a silent, absolute command for Alina to freeze.

Alina stopped dead, her hands hovering in the air, a sob catching in her throat as she stared at the massive, tattooed man.

Damian’s gaze never left the white plastic bottle.

With slow, terrifying deliberation, Damian gripped the ribbed cap with his right thumb and forefinger. He applied downward pressure until the safety mechanism clicked—a sharp, plastic snap that sounded like a dry bone breaking in the silent room.

He twisted the cap off.

The smell that escaped the bottle was faint, almost imperceptible: a bitter, dry chemical odor, lacking the chalky, slightly sweet binders of standard pharmaceutical tablets.