I told the most feared man in Chicago that he was the reason his newborn son had been screaming for six straight hours. His armed bodyguards looked ready to bury me for saying it, but seconds after Dominic Moretti finally handed me the baby, the child went terrifyingly silent.

Three days after the attack on Villa Moretti, the air in Chicago was clear and cold.

The damage to the estate had been repaired with terrifying speed by Dominic’s crew. The glass conservatory was rebuilt, the marble floor in the foyer was polished back to a mirror shine, and the security detail was tripled. To the outside world, nothing had happened. But inside the syndicate, everything had changed.

Tonight was the gathering of the Chicago Commission—the summit of the city's six major crime families.

Dominic stood before the full-length mirror in his private study, dressing in a sharp, pitch-black suit. His jaw was firm, his eyes set in stone.

I walked into the study carrying Julian, who was wearing a soft white cotton onesie, contentedly sucking on his pacifier.

"You don't have to go alone," I said softly, stopping near his desk.

Dominic turned around, adjusting his cuff links. "The Commission requires a demonstration of absolute strength, Clara. Valerio’s trial is a formality. I must deliver the verdict myself to ensure no other family considers challenging my leadership."

"Is he going to die?" I asked plainly.

Dominic didn't lie to me. He walked over to us, his eyes fixing on mine. "Yes. Treason against the bloodline carries only one sentence."

I took a deep breath, accepting the brutal reality of his world. "Just promise me you’ll come home for dinner. Julian’s new feeding schedule requires both of us."

A small, genuine smile touched Dominic’s lips—a sight that was becoming more frequent when he was around me and his son.

"I will be back by eight," Dominic promised.

He reached out, placing his hand over Julian’s head, before leaning in closer to me. He lingered for a moment, his dark eyes searching mine, his breath warm against my skin, before he leaned down and kissed my cheek softly—a gentle, protective touch that made my heart leap into my throat.

"Keep the house secure," Dominic whispered against my ear.

"Always," I murmured.

With a final nod, Dominic turned and swept out of the room, followed by Frankie and a convoy of four armored vehicles.

I spent the evening in the conservatory with Julian. The nursery routine was working seamlessly now. Julian had gained two pounds over the week, his colic symptoms had completely vanished under the new hypoallergenic formula, and he was sleeping six straight hours a night.

At 7:45 PM, as the rain began to patter against the glass roof of the conservatory, the heavy front doors of the estate opened.

I walked out into the grand foyer carrying Julian, expecting to see Dominic returning from the Commission summit.

Instead, two unfamiliar men in black suits stepped through the door, carrying a large wooden crate. Behind them walked a tall, elegant woman in her fifties, wearing a high-end trench coat and diamonds around her neck.

Her face was cold, aristocratic, and lined with sharp authority.

"Who are you?" I demanded, stepping back toward the stairs, my hand instinctively resting over Julian’s head.