Part 2: Hours before proposing to another woman, a mob boss walked into a restaurant restroom and found four six-year-old boys who shared his exact face.

I hung up before my uncle could scream back.

"Pack," I told Clara, turning to her.

She backed away, shaking her head violently. "No. No! We are not going anywhere with you, Dominic! Did you hear that phone call? You're dragging us into a warzone!"

"You're already in the warzone, Clara!" I shouted, the control slipping for a split second. "They know about Dorchester. Harrington has eyes everywhere. If my uncle suspects these boys are mine—if he realizes there are four legitimate Moretti heirs who supersede his own claim—he will send a hit squad to this building before sunrise!"

Clara’s face went translucent with horror. She looked at her sons, who were suddenly clinging to her legs, frightened by my raised voice.

"You have five minutes," I said, softening my tone. "Pack one bag for each of them. Take only what matters. I have Marcus downstairs. We move now."

She didn't argue. The terror of a mother outmatched any pride she possessed. She sprinted into the bedroom, pulling out plastic laundry hampers and stuffing them with clothes, worn stuffed animals, and beat-up storybooks.

I stepped out onto the porch landing and dialed Marcus.

"Boss?"

"Is the perimeter clean?"

"Negative," Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker. "Two black Dodge Chargers just parked down the block. Engine idling. Tinted windows. Harrington’s wet work crew, Dom. They aren't waiting for the council meeting. They’re moving to burn the place down."

My jaw clenched so hard a molar cracked. "How many?"

"Four in each car. Heavily armed."

"Keep the boys and Clara inside the stairwell. Cover the back fire escape. I’m taking the front."

I hung up, stripped off my bespoke jacket, and tossed it onto the banister. I rolled up the sleeves of my white dress shirt, exposing the heavy ink covering my forearms—tattoos from my years in the military before I was dragged back to rule this empire.

I unholstered my custom Sig Sauer P226 from beneath my armpit, racked the slide, and checked the chamber.

"Dominic?" Clara stepped onto the landing, holding a single duffel bag, the boys clustered tightly behind her. Her eyes locked onto the black steel in my hand.

"Stay behind the steel door at the top of the stairs," I instructed calmly, without looking back. "Put your hands over their ears."

"Dominic, please don't—"

"They came for my sons, Clara," I said, stepping onto the first tread of the stairs. "Nobody touches my blood."

I descended the stairs into the shadows of the ground floor. Through the glass panels of the front entrance, I saw the headlights of the two Chargers flare to life. The doors clicked open. Eight men in dark tactical jackets stepped out into the pouring rain, racking automatic shotguns and suppressed submachine guns.

They thought they were ambushing an defenseless single mother.

They had no idea the devil himself was waiting in the foyer.

I kicked the front door open with a thunderous crash, stepping out onto the wet porch into the glare of their headlights.

"Good evening, gentlemen," I whispered into the storm.