The first time I made Chicago’s most feared crime boss laugh, I was sitting in his chair, wearing his glasses, and accusing a twelve-pound puppy of destroying confidential evidence. Nobody in Adrian Moretti’s mansion had heard him laugh in nine years—and when that sound finally broke through the room, every armed man near the door stared at me like I had just done something more dangerous than trespassing.

The answer came at midnight.

I couldn't sleep. The tension in the house was suffocating, every shadow in the long corridors feeling like a potential threat.

I left my room, slipping down the narrow back stairwell toward the basement storage vaults where the family’s physical records were kept. If someone had overridden the security system, they had to leave a physical log on the hard servers housed in the lower sub-basement.

As I reached the heavy steel door of the server vault, I saw a faint sliver of light bleeding beneath the frame.

The door was unlocked.

I pressed my back against the cold concrete wall, peeking through the narrow gap.

Inside, standing before the main terminal with a flash drive inserted into the drive, was not Claire Whitmore.

It was Dominic Vance.

He was rapidly copying encrypted files—the location of Adrian's safehouses, the supply chain routes through Indiana, and the personal security detail schedules for the upcoming month.

"Copying the final files, Vance?" a soft, cold voice echoed from the dark doorway behind him.

Vance spun around, his hand reaching for his sidearm.

Adrian stepped out of the shadows, dressed in a long black overcoat, a silenced pistol held casually at his side. Beside him walked Claire Whitmore, holding a tablet displaying live diagnostic telemetry.

"It took you nine years to make a mistake, Dominic," Adrian said softly, his voice devoid of anger, replaced only by a cold, devastating disappointment.

Vance slowly withdrew his hand from his jacket, realizing he was completely surrounded by four Moretti guards stepping into the vault behind Adrian.

"Why, Vance?" Adrian asked, taking a slow step forward. "You were my father's right hand. You helped me build this empire after Julian died."

Vance let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Your father's empire?! You turned this family into a legitimate logistics firm, Adrian! You stopped taking the territory that was ours! You let the Rossi family take half the dock contracts in Gary because you were mourning a dead boy for nine years!"

"I protected this family," Adrian corrected quietly.

"You protected nothing!" Vance spat, his eyes wild with rage. "Marco Rossi offered me thirty percent of the Midwest distribution if I delivered your security codes. He offered a real future! Not this dead house with a grief-stricken boss who falls in love with a domestic servant!"

Vance suddenly pulled a small silver detonator from his pocket, his thumb hovering over the red button. "There's a charge on the main power grid downstairs, Adrian. One press, and this entire wing goes dark!"

"Don't do it, Vance!" I screamed, stepping into the vault doorway from the side corridor.

Vance’s head snapped toward me, his thumb twitching on the trigger. "You..."

BANG.

A single shot echoed through the concrete vault.

Adrian fired with terrifying speed and precision. The bullet caught Vance directly in the wrist, sending the silver detonator flying across the floor, clattering against the steel racks.

Vance collapsed to his knees, screaming in pain, holding his shattered wrist.

Two guards lunged forward, pinning Vance to the floor, slapping heavy zip-ties around his hands.

Adrian didn't look at Vance. He lowered his gun and walked straight toward me, pulling me out of the doorway, checking my face with wild, desperate eyes.

"Are you hurt?!" he demanded, his voice trembling.

"I'm fine," I breathed, wrapping my arms around his waist, leaning into his chest as the adrenaline faded. "I'm fine..."