The leather crop was raised for another strike, suspended in the heavy, perfumed air of the sitting room. And standing directly in front of Emma, swirling a crystal glass of gin, was Alessia.

Luca was a ghost. He left before dawn and returned long after midnight, stripping off suits that smelled of stale cigar smoke and copper. He would slide into the massive bed, wrapping his heavy arms around her from behind, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and falling instantly asleep. They rarely spoke, but the physical connection was absolute. He treated her like an anchor, the only quiet place in a world rapidly descending into violence.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the silence was shattered.

Emma was sitting in the glass-walled conservatory attached to the master suite, reading a book, when a deafening explosion rocked the estate. The heavy glass windows rattled violently, and a plume of thick black smoke billowed up from the front gates.

Instantly, the door to the bedroom burst open. The two guards rushed in, weapons drawn.

“Miss Carter, away from the windows!” the taller guard barked, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the center of the room.

Gunfire erupted outside, the sharp, rhythmic crack of automatic weapons echoing across the manicured lawns. Sirens began to wail from the estate’s security system. Emma’s heart hammered against her ribs as she allowed the guards to push her into the massive, walk-in closet, a reinforced safe room designed for exactly this scenario.

“Stay away from the door,” the guard ordered, hitting a button on the wall that slid a heavy steel plate over the wooden door frame, sealing her inside in dim emergency lighting.

Emma sat on the carpeted floor, pulling her knees to her chest, listening to the muffled chaos outside. Carlo Vitiello had not waited for a sit-down. He had launched a full-scale frontal assault on the Moretti estate. He wanted Luca dead, and he wanted the woman who had humiliated his daughter dragged out by her hair.

Time lost all meaning in the dark. The gunfire seemed to last for hours, rising and falling in terrifying crescendos. Emma closed her eyes, praying not for her own life, but for the ruthless, beautiful man who was currently fighting in the snow.

Suddenly, the gunfire stopped.

A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the house. Emma held her breath, staring at the steel-reinforced door. If the Vitiellos had won, they would be coming for her next. She scanned the closet, her eyes landing on a heavy bronze shoe horn. It was a pathetic weapon, but she grabbed it, her knuckles turning white. She would not go back to being a victim.

Heavy footsteps approached the closet. A hand pounded on the steel.

“Emma.”

It was Luca.

Emma scrambled to her feet, dropping the shoe horn, and hit the release button. The steel plate slid back, and the wooden door pulled open.

Luca stood in the doorway, blocking the light. He looked like the devil incarnate. His white dress shirt was torn at the shoulder, soaked in blood that she prayed belonged to someone else. His face was covered in a mask of dirt, soot, and crimson spray. He was breathing heavily, his dark eyes wild and hollowed out from the adrenaline of absolute slaughter.

He didn’t say a word. He stepped into the closet, dropped his heavy assault rifle to the carpet, and wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against his chest.

Emma gasped as the wind was knocked out of her, but she instantly threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his blood-soaked shirt. He was trembling. The most dangerous man on the eastern seaboard was shaking as he held her.

“They breached the outer gate,” Luca rasped, his voice rough and guttural. “A suicide run. Four SUVs rigged with explosives. They thought they could punch a hole in the perimeter.”

“Are you hurt?” Emma asked frantically, pulling back slightly to inspect the blood on his shoulder.

“It’s not mine,” he said dismissively. He cupped her face with both hands, smearing soot on her pale cheeks, his thumbs tracing her jawline with frantic desperation. “I thought… when the blast hit, I was at the southern perimeter. I thought they had gotten to the house.”

“I’m safe,” she whispered, her hands resting flat against his racing heart. “Your men protected me.”

Luca’s expression hardened, the vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a cold, terrifying resolve. “Vitiello sent twenty men. None of them are breathing. He thought this was a negotiation. He thought a show of force would make me back down and reinstate the alliance.”

Luca stepped back, grabbing his rifle from the floor. He looked down at her, his eyes entirely devoid of mercy.

“Stay here,” Luca commanded.

“Where are you going?” Emma asked, fear gripping her throat again.

“I am going to end this,” Luca said calmly. “Vitiello broke the laws of the Commission by attacking a Don in his own home. He is no longer protected by the old rules. I am going to tear his syndicate apart, block by block, until I have him on his knees.”

Luca turned and walked out of the bedroom, his heavy boots leaving bloody footprints on the pristine white carpet.

The retaliation of Luca Moretti was not a war; it was an execution.

Over the next forty-eight hours, the Vitiello family ceased to exist in New York. Luca unleashed his soldiers with zero restraint. Vitiello’s illegal casinos were firebombed. His shipping containers at the docks were seized by federal agents acting on anonymous tips provided by Luca’s shell corporations. His capos were dragged from their beds in the dead of night and never seen again.

On the third night following the attack, Emma was sitting in the library by the fire, reading, when the heavy oak doors swung open.

Luca walked in. He wore a pristine, perfectly tailored charcoal suit, looking entirely unbothered by the trail of carnage he had just spent three days orchestrating. He walked over to the mahogany bar, poured two glasses of red wine, and brought one to her.