HER MOTHER SOLD HER TO CHICAGO’S MOST FEARED MAFIA BOSS FOR $2 MILLION, BUT THE SECOND HE SAW HER FACE — But His Reaction Changed Everything

By two in the morning, the top floor of the Duca headquarters had transformed into a war room.

Dozens of high-ranking syndicate lieutenants, tactical operators, and intelligence specialists filled the outer offices. Maps of the Gold Coast district were laid out across glass tables, alongside tactical blueprints of the Whitmore estate on Astor Street.

Jane sat in a leather armchair in Marco’s private office, a fresh cup of hot tea in her hand, watching the clock tick on the wall.

Marco stood at the center of the room, surrounded by his three top captains.

"The perimeter at the Astor Street property is guarded by six private security contractors," a captain named Leo reported, sliding a tablet across the desk. "They're former military, heavily armed, and paid under the table through Charlotte’s offshore accounts in the Caymans."

"Do we care about their credentials?" another captain, a scar-faced man named Viktor, asked coldly.

"We don't," Marco replied flatly. "If they raise a weapon, neutralize them. My command is absolute: Charlotte Whitmore is to be taken alive. Anyone who stands between my men and that woman dies."

"What about the police?" Leo asked. "The Gold Coast is heavily patrolled. A full breach of a multi-million-dollar estate will draw federal attention within ten minutes."

"The police commissioner owes his seat to the Duca family," Marco said, his tone icy. "He will receive a call in five minutes informing him of a severe gas leak on Astor Street. The entire block will be cordoned off by emergency services. No officers will enter the perimeter until I give the order."

Jane listened to the cold, methodical precision with which Marco arranged the destruction of her former life. For twenty-two years, Charlotte Whitmore had seemed invincible. She was a pillar of Chicago high society, a woman who moved among governors, judges, and billionaires. Yet, in less than two hours, Marco Duca had dismantled her protections like wet paper.

Marco turned away from his captains and walked over to Jane. He looked down at her, his expression softening instantly.

"You don't have to be there for this," Marco said softly. "My men can handle Charlotte. You can stay here, rest, and let the doctors take care of you."

Jane stood up from the armchair. Despite the dull ache in her rib, she stood tall, her dark eyes flashing with the same fierce fire that had once belonged to Clara Ross.

"I spent twenty-two years living under that woman's thumb, Marco," Jane said, her voice steady and resolute. "She locked me in attics. She bruised my ribs. She tried to have me murdered for an insurance check. I am coming with you."

Marco stared at her for a long moment. A slow, proud smile broke through the hard lines of his face.

"You really are Clara’s daughter," Marco said quietly. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, sleek silver handgun, extending it toward her handle-first. "Do you know how to use one of these?"