"They beat my housekeeper nearly unconscious because she wore my family crest, then left her bleeding in the rain as a warning to me. But the men who attacked Emma Carter made one fatal mistake: they thought hurting someone under my protection would frighten me.

By 1:30 a.m., Emma had been moved to the private medical wing on the third floor of my estate.

Dr. Vance had finished stitching the deep laceration above her brow and setting two fractured ribs. She was wrapped in warm heated blankets, sleeping fitfully under the influence of strong painkillers, with my sister Lucia sitting vigil beside her bed, holding her bandaged hand.

I stood outside the doorway, watching through the glass panel as Lucia gently wiped a damp cloth over Emma’s pale forehead.

Marco walked up the carpeted hallway, his heavy leather shoes silent against the runner. Behind him walked four men—the elite strike team of the Castellano family. They were dressed in sterile black tactical gear, void of any crests, serial numbers, or identifying marks.

“The car is in the underground bay, Dominic,” Marco reported, his tone low and grim. “I ran the tattoo description through our registry. The man with the cobra on his wrist is Lev Sokolo—Kolov’s primary enforcer for debt collections in Brooklyn. He operates out of an illegal gambling den beneath a nightclub called The Red Star on Atlantic Avenue.”

I adjusted the silver cufflinks on my sleeves, turning my head to face him.

“Is Kolov there?”

“Our contacts say Kolov left for Miami two days ago,” Marco replied. “He left Sokolo in charge of the Brooklyn turf while he’s away. Sokolo was the one who ordered the hit on Emma to prove his loyalty to Kolov.”

I stepped away from the door, walking toward the grand staircase. “So Kolov thinks he can hide behind three thousand miles of airspace while his lapdogs spill blood on my street.”

“Dominic,” Marco said, falling into step beside me as we descended toward the subterranean garage. “If we strike The Red Star, it’s an open declaration of war against the Russian syndicate. The Commission will call an emergency hearing. The old men won't like us disrupting the truce over a housekeeper.”

I stopped on the bottom step of the marble staircase, turning around to face my second-in-command.

“Emma Carter is not just a housekeeper, Marco,” I said, every word dropping like a piece of lead onto the floor. “She lives under my roof. She eats food bought with my money. She wears my family crest on her chest. In the eyes of the city, she is Castellano property.”

My voice stayed low, but the sheer, lethal density behind it made even the veteran soldiers behind Marco shift their footing.

“If a rival syndicate can beat a member of my household within an inch of her life four blocks from my front door and walk away breathing,” I continued, “then my crest means nothing. My name means nothing. And this empire is built on dust.”

Marco looked into my eyes for three seconds, searching for any trace of hesitation. He found none.

He bowed his head slightly. “Understood, Boss.”

We walked into the underground Bay. A sleek, matte-black armored SUV sat idling in the center of the concrete floor, its twin turbo V8 engine humming like a sleeping beast.

I did not reach for a tailored jacket. I pulled a black leather coat over my dress shirt, chambered a round into my custom silver-plated 1911 pistol, and pressed it into the holster beneath my arm.