In the Marchetti house, there are two kinds of people: those who hold the whip, and those who stand against the wall. Adeline Croft learned this on her eleventh day of work, when a champagne silk gown and a riding crop reduced her to a target in front of two hundred guests. She did not scream. She did not beg. She did not name the old woman upstairs whose secret was worth more to her than her own skin. The man who stopped the beating — her employer, the most feared man in Chicago — will spend the rest of the night trying to understand why a woman with nothing to lose would choose to lose everything rather than speak a single sentence that would have set her free.

Adeline sprinted up the grand staircase, her apron fluttering behind her as she reached the second-floor study. She pushed open the oak doors, rushing to the floorboard beneath the desk.

She pulled out the black leather ledger, clutching it tightly to her chest.

"Give me that book," a harsh voice spat from the doorway.

Adeline turned violently around.

Hector Ashford stood in the doorway, a heavy silver pistol drawn from beneath his coat. Behind him stood two of his personal bodyguards, their faces shadowed and ruthless.

"You've been a nuisance since the day you stepped into this house, girl," Hector said, walking toward her with his gun raised. "Hand over the ledger, and I might let you leave Chicago alive."

Adeline backed up against the desk, her fingers digging into the leather cover of the book. "This ledger belonged to Don Marchetti. It holds the proof of what you did to his father... and what you did to mine."

Hector paused, a cruel smile spreading across his lips. "Julian Croft’s daughter. I thought your face looked familiar. Your father was a stubborn fool, just like you. He died in a dark alley because he wouldn't sign his name to my ledgers."

"And you will answer for it," Adeline said, her voice steady despite the gun pointed at her chest.

"I don't think so," Hector sneered, taking another step forward. "Hand it over."

"She won't have to," a voice purred from the balcony above.

Before Hector could turn, a dark figure dropped from the library gallery landing directly onto the nearest bodyguard, knocking him to the floor with a bone-shattering thud.

It was Enzo.

He moved like a mountain cat—lethal, fast, and completely merciless. In a fraction of a second, he grabbed the second bodyguard’s arm, twisting it until the gun dropped, followed by a devastating elbow to the man's ribs.

Hector spun around, aiming his pistol at Enzo. "Enzo— wait!"

Enzo didn't pause. He grabbed the barrel of Hector’s gun with his bare hand, wrenching it violently out of his grip, and slammed his fist squarely into Hector’s jaw.

Hector crashed back against the leather sofa, his nose bleeding, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Enzo stood over him, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his knuckles bruised, his dark eyes ablaze with cold, absolute fury. He turned to Adeline, his voice trembling slightly. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Adeline breathed, holding out the ledger. "I have it."

Enzo stepped over to her, taking the leather book from her hands. He flipped to the final pages, reading the entries written in his father's hand—the poisoning records, the forged harbor deeds, and the murder of Julian Croft.

Enzo slowly turned his head toward Hector Ashford, who was cowering on the sofa.

"My father didn't die of a heart attack," Enzo said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the windowpanes rattle. "You poisoned his wine over three months."

"Enzo... please..." Hector begged, raising his bloody hands. "It was business! The families were at war!"