My six-year-old adopted daughter was forced to scrub filthy dishes on Christmas while her cousins opened expensive presents. When I confronted my parents, my father sneered, "She's not our blood. She needs to know her place." They had forgotten I was the most feared Mafia boss in Chicago. But when I reached for a mysterious letter about my daughter's adoption, my mother screamed, "Don't open it!" And suddenly, I realized their cruelty was hiding something far more sinister.

The sight of Marcus bleeding in my home erased everything else in the room.

He was my most trusted captain.

A man who had taken two bullets for me over the last decade.

If he was bleeding, my perimeter had been breached.

“Who hit you?” I demanded, stepping away from my parents.

Marcus threw the torn, blood-stained winter coat onto my mahogany desk.

“Nobody hit me, Boss. I found this outside the back gates. It belongs to the guard on post three. He’s dead.”

My father stumbled backward, clutching the edge of the leather sofa.

My mother let out a sharp gasp.

“Are we under attack?” I asked, drawing my weapon.

“No,” Marcus said, wiping blood from his eye. “They came, they took out the guard, and they left a message.”

He pointed at the coat.

Pinned to the collar of the ruined fabric was a folded piece of paper.

I ripped it off.

The handwriting was elegant, written in thick black ink.

We know you have her, DeLuca. We want our blood back. Midnight.

I crushed the note in my fist.

The Rossis.

Somehow, they had found out about Renee.

“They’re coming for the girl,” my father panicked. “I told you, Michael! I told you she was a liability! You have to hand her over!”

I turned on him, my gun still in my hand.

“If you ever suggest handing my daughter over to a rival cartel again, I will forget that you are my father.”

He swallowed hard and stepped back.

I looked at Marcus.

“Lock down the estate. Call every man we have on the payroll. Nobody gets within a mile of this house without a bullet in their chest.”

“Already done, Boss,” Marcus said.

I walked out of the study and rushed up the grand staircase.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I reached Renee’s bedroom.

Maria, the housekeeper, was sitting on the floor beside the bed, reading a storybook.

Renee was tucked under her pink blankets, her dark curls spread across the pillow.

She looked so small. So innocent.

She wasn't a pawn in a mafia war.

She was the little girl who liked strawberry ice cream and drew pictures of us holding hands.

“Daddy?” she whispered, rubbing her eyes.

I put my gun away and knelt beside the bed.

I forced a calm, warm smile onto my face.

“Hey, princess. I just came to check on you.”

She reached out, her tiny, dish-roughened fingers touching my cheek.

“Are Grandma and Grandpa still mad at me?”

The question shattered my heart.

“No, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her forehead. “They aren't mad at you. They’re just leaving. Early.”

I stood up and looked at Maria.

“Do not leave this room. If anyone other than me tries to open that door, you shoot them.”

Maria, who had survived the streets of Chicago long before she worked for me, nodded grimly.

I walked back downstairs.

My parents were standing in the foyer with my sister, Paula, and her two daughters.

They had their coats on.

“We’re leaving,” my mother announced, her voice shaking with fear. “We won't stay here and be slaughtered because of your stubbornness.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” I said coldly.

Paula glared at me.

“Michael, you can't keep us hostage! The Rossis are coming!”

“The Rossis are coming because someone told them Renee is here,” I said, descending the final few steps.

I stopped in front of my mother.

“The law firm sent the letter this morning. The Rossis attacked my guard tonight. They didn't have time to do their own investigating. Someone inside this house tipped them off.”

My mother’s face went perfectly pale.

“You think I would call the Rossis?”

“I think you hate Isabella Rossi enough to use her family to get rid of her child.”

“I didn't call them!” my mother screamed.

“She didn't,” my sister Paula interrupted.

I turned to Paula.

She was clutching her expensive designer handbag, looking everywhere but at me.

“Paula,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “What did you do?”

Paula backed away.

“I just wanted her gone, Michael! She doesn't belong here! Sophie and Emma are the rightful heirs to the DeLuca fortune! Not some bastard child of a dead brother!”

I stared at my sister.

The greed and jealousy rolling off her made me sick.

“You called the Rossis,” I realized. “You traded your own niece’s life for an inheritance.”

“She’s not my niece!” Paula shouted. “She’s a monster’s child!”

Before I could react, Marcus sprinted into the foyer.

“Boss!” he yelled. “They aren't waiting for midnight! We have three black SUVs breaching the main gate right now!”

I drew my weapon, shoving my traitorous sister and parents toward the back hallway.

“Get in the basement,” I ordered.

I walked out onto the front porch, the freezing Chicago wind biting my face.

The SUVs screeched to a halt in my circular driveway.

Dozens of armed men poured out, aiming assault rifles at my house.

But I didn't look at them.