A hundred and eighty-seven people watched Chicago’s most feared mafia boss roll backward into twelve feet of freezing water—and not one of them screamed.

By eight o'clock that evening, the Vescari estate felt like a mausoleum.

The two hundred guests had fled in a frantic, quiet exodus, leaving behind half-eaten plates of caviar and melting ice sculptures on the lawn. Heavy iron gates locked shut behind them, reinforced by twenty heavily armed soldiers loyal to Julian’s personal vanguard.

I sat in the mahogany-paneled library on the second floor, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, sipping hot tea while a fire crackled in the hearth. My wet blue dress had been taken by a maid, replaced by a soft grey sweatshirt and sweatpants belonging to the household staff.

The door pushed open, and Marco entered the room, holding a heavy manila folder. He looked at me with an unreadable expression—a mix of intense resentment and deep unease.

"The Boss wants you in his study," Marco grunted.

I set my mug down and stood up, pulling the blanket tightly around my shoulders. "Is he alright?"

"He's alive," Marco replied coldly. "Which means half the people in this house won't be by tomorrow morning."

I followed Marco down the long, shadowed corridor of the west wing. Every ten feet, a security guard stood stiffly against the wall, submachine guns slung over their tactical vests. The atmosphere was thick with paranoia. Everyone was watching everyone else.

Marco opened a set of double oak doors, revealing Julian's private sanctuary.

Julian sat behind a massive black walnut desk. He had changed into a dark turtleneck sweater and dark trousers. His hair was slicked back, wet from a warm shower, and his pale skin looked ghostly against the dim lighting of the room. He sat in a sleek, reinforced silver wheelchair—his backup model.

Sitting across from him was Leo Vescari, his cousin and head of financial operations for the Vescari family.

"...It doesn't make financial sense to purge the entire security detail, Julian!" Leo was arguing, his face flushed red. "If you fire Marco's team, the rival families in Detroit will sense weakness and move on the docks!"

"I don't care about the docks, Leo," Julian said flatly, without raising his voice. "I care about loyalty. Marco's men stood still while I sank."

"Because someone gave an order!" Leo shouted, slamming a fist onto the desk. "You know how this business works! If Victoria or Uncle Dominic dropped a quiet word in their ears before the party, the guards were too terrified to disobey!"

"Then they are useless to me," Julian replied. His dark eyes flicked past Leo to lock onto me as I walked into the room. "Leave us, Leo. Marco, wait outside."

Leo glared at me with deep hostility as he stood up. "A temp secretary, Julian? You're trusting a woman who has been here for eleven days over your own blood?"

"My blood let me drown," Julian murmured softly. "The temp jumped into twelve feet of freezing water. Get out."

Once the door clicked shut, leaving only the two of us, Julian gestured to the leather armchair across from his desk.

"Sit, Clara."

I sat down cautiously.

Julian reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick envelope of cash, and slid it across the polished walnut toward me.

"Fifty thousand dollars," Julian said smoothly. "A small token of my appreciation for your quick thinking and your lifeguard training."

I looked at the envelope, then raised my eyes to meet his. "I didn't do it for money, Mr. Vescari."

"Everyone does everything for money, Clara," he countered, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Or fear. Or revenge. Why did a young woman with a fake resume jump into a lake to save a man widely considered to be a monster?"

My heart slammed against my ribs. My breath caught in my throat.