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.

I stared at the diamond necklace resting on Renee’s empty pillow.

The glittering stones mocked me.

Paula had taken my daughter.

I had spent my entire adult life building a fortress to keep monsters out, only to realize I’d locked the monster inside with us.

Marcus ran into the room, his gun drawn.

He saw the empty bed and the open window.

“Boss, we have perimeter teams sweeping the woods,” Marcus said, his voice tight with panic. “She couldn't have gotten far with a struggling child.”

“She didn't run into the woods,” I said, my voice a hollow, dangerous calm.

I picked up the diamond necklace.

I remembered the day my father bought this for Paula. It was a custom piece, heavy and sharp.

Just like her ambition.

“Paula is arrogant, but she isn't stupid,” I said, walking toward the window. “She knows she can't outrun my men on foot. She had a vehicle waiting.”

I looked down at the snowy ground two stories below.

There were clear boot tracks leading away from the wall, heading straight toward the estate’s private boat dock on Lake Michigan.

“The lake,” I realized. “She has a boat.”

I turned and sprinted out of the room, leaving Marcus to tend to the unconscious housekeeper.

I burst through the back doors of the mansion and ran across the frozen, snow-covered lawn.

Vincent Rossi and his men were still standing in the driveway, completely confused by the explosion and the chaos.

“Michael!” Vincent shouted as I ran past. “What happened? Where is my granddaughter?”

“My sister took her!” I yelled without stopping. “She’s heading for the dock!”

To my surprise, Vincent didn't hesitate.

The head of the rival mafia family unholstered his weapon and ran right beside me.

For the first time in three generations, a DeLuca and a Rossi were fighting on the same side.

We reached the dock just as a sleek, black speedboat roared to life.

The engine echoed over the dark, freezing water.

Paula was at the helm, her designer coat flapping in the wind.

In the passenger seat, tied and gagged, was my tiny, six-year-old daughter.

Renee’s wide, terrified eyes met mine through the darkness.

“Renee!” I roared, raising my gun.

But I couldn't shoot. The risk of hitting the boat's fuel tank or a ricochet hitting Renee was too high.

Paula laughed—a sharp, hysterical sound that carried over the water.

“She’s a liability, Michael! I’m doing us a favor!”

She slammed the throttle forward, and the boat surged away from the dock, cutting a white wake through the black lake.

I stood at the edge of the pier, my chest heaving, watching the only thing I loved disappear into the night.

Vincent Rossi stopped beside me, his breathing ragged.

He looked out at the fading boat lights.

“We have a helicopter at my compound,” Vincent said firmly. “Ten minutes away. We can track her from the air.”

I looked at him.

The man I had spent years trying to destroy.

“Let’s go,” I said.

We rode in Vincent’s armored SUV, tearing through the quiet Chicago suburbs.

The tension in the car was suffocating.

“Why would Paula do this?” Vincent asked, his voice strained. “Why murder Leo? Why take the child?”

“Money,” I said bitterly. “My father established a blind trust for the firstborn grandchild of the DeLuca bloodline. Paula thought her daughters were the only heirs. When she realized Renee was Leo’s legitimate child... she knew the trust belonged to her.”

Vincent closed his eyes, a look of profound grief crossing his face.

“Greed. It’s always greed.”

We arrived at the Rossi compound.

A sleek, black helicopter was already fueled and waiting on the helipad.

I climbed in, strapping myself into the passenger seat. Vincent took the controls himself.

We lifted off into the freezing night sky, banking sharply out over Lake Michigan.

The lake was massive, dark, and deadly in the winter.

We scanned the black water with high-powered searchlights, looking for the white wake of Paula’s speedboat.

“There!” I pointed.

About two miles offshore, a small blip of light was moving rapidly toward an abandoned industrial pier on the north side of the city.

Vincent pushed the helicopter to its limits, the rotors screaming as we closed the distance.

As we approached the pier, the speedboat slammed against the rotting wooden pilings.

Paula jumped out, dragging Renee roughly by the arm.

The little girl stumbled, falling onto the cold wooden planks.

My vision went red.

I didn't wait for Vincent to land the helicopter.

While we were still hovering fifteen feet above the pier, I unbuckled my harness and jumped.

I hit the wooden dock hard, rolling to absorb the impact, my shoulder screaming in pain.

But I didn't stop.

I drew my weapon and sprinted toward my sister.

“Paula!” I roared, the sound echoing off the abandoned warehouses.

Paula spun around, her eyes wide with panic.

She realized she couldn't outrun me.

She grabbed Renee, pulling the terrified little girl in front of her as a human shield, and pressed the barrel of her own gun against Renee’s head.

“Stop right there, Michael!” Paula screamed, her voice cracking with desperation.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my gun leveled at my sister’s chest.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Renee was crying, her tiny hands reaching out toward me.

“Daddy, please!”

“Let her go, Paula,” I said, my voice dropping to a terrifying, absolute calm. “You walk away now, and I let you live. You harm one hair on her head, and I will make you beg for a death you won't get.”

Paula’s hand shook violently.

“I can't go back, Michael! You’ll kill me for Leo!”

Before I could answer, a shadow moved from the darkness of the warehouse behind Paula.

A figure stepped into the harsh light of the helicopter’s spotlight.

It wasn't one of my men.

It wasn't a Rossi soldier.

It was a woman.

Wearing a torn, blood-stained winter coat.

She walked with a limp, but she held a heavy iron pipe in her hands.

Vincent Rossi gasped over the helicopter’s loudspeaker.

I stared in absolute shock.

It was Isabella Rossi.