Rich girls forced a pregnant janitor to her knees at an elite academy—until the mafia boss she thought was dead crashed through the gates and saw her on the floor.

Rain had begun to pelt the tall stained-glass windows of Briarwell Academy by the time Damien’s Cadillac roared back up the winding private driveway.

The atmosphere in the grand dining hall had transformed from a scene of high school drama into a full-scale tactical interrogation site. Tactical floodlights illuminated the vaulted room with harsh, clinical white light. The two hundred students had been escorted into adjacent classrooms under guard, leaving only the primary players in the center of the hall.

Chloe Kensington was sitting on a cold folding chair, wrapped in a coarse military thermal blanket, sobbing hysterically.

Beside her stood Headmaster Ellison, on his knees, his hands resting flat against the marble floor just as Damien had instructed an hour earlier. His knees were bruised, his back screaming in agony, but every time he attempted to shift, an operative with an assault rifle casually cleared his throat, freezing the educator in place.

The double doors swung open, admitting a gust of freezing rain and the commanding figure of Senator Marcus Kensington.

Marcus was a man in his late fifties, possessing silver hair meticulously styled for campaign posters, wearing an expensive tailored trench coat over a three-piece suit. Behind him were four private security guards with broad shoulders and earpieces—ex-Secret Service, by the look of their stance.

"What is the meaning of this outrage?!" Marcus boomed, his baritone voice engineered for senate floors. "Who authorized armed men on this campus?! Chloe! Headmaster Ellison! What is going on here?!"

"Daddy!" Chloe wailed, attempting to leap from her chair.

A gloved hand shoved her firmly back down.

Marcus lunged forward, his face turning an apoplectic purple. "Take your hands off my daughter, you animal! Do you have any idea who I am?! I will have the National Guard roll down this driveway in thirty minutes!"

"The National Guard doesn't answer to disgraced senators under active federal indictment, Marcus."

Damien stepped out from the shadows near the faculty dais.

Marcus Kensington froze mid-stride. The color drained from the politician’s face so rapidly it looked as though someone had pulled a drain plug on his circulatory system. His chest rose and fell in ragged, disbelieving gasps.

"Rowe...?" Marcus whispered, his arrogant posture instantly collapsing. "No... no, that's impossible. You're dead. The consortium confirmed the body was cremated."

"The consortium lied to you," Damien said, stepping into the glaring glare of the tactical lights. "Just like they lied when they told you that backing the hit on my motorcade would clear your twenty-two million dollar debt to the Camorra."

The room seemed to shrink.

Headmaster Ellison looked up from his knees, his eyes darting between the mafia boss and the powerful senator who had funded the academy’s new science wing.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," Marcus stammered, raising his chin in a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity. "You're a criminal. A violent thug. My daughter called me in tears! She said some lunatic was terrorizing the school because of a misunderstanding over a janitor's bag!"

"A janitor," Damien said softly.

He walked over to Chloe. The girl cowered, pulling the rough blanket up to her chin. Damien reached down and lifted the discarded gray maintenance uniform from the floor—the uniform Maren had been forced to shed before the paramedics carried her away.

He held the cheap, stained cotton up to Marcus’s nose.

"This janitor," Damien murmured, "is carrying my daughter. The heir to the Rowe syndicate."

Marcus Kensington’s breath hitched in his throat. His eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated panic. He looked from the uniform down to his daughter, whose face was buried in her hands.

"Chloe..." Marcus croaked, his voice cracking. "What did you do?"

"She framed her," Damien said, his tone as casual as someone discussing the weather. "She stole her own watch, shoved it in a locker, and kicked a pregnant woman to the stone floor. She laughed while Maren screamed in pain."

Damien dropped the uniform. It fluttered to the floor like a dirty flag.

"And then," Damien continued, "I pulled up the bank transfers from six months ago. The explosive charge wired to the undercarriage of my car on the Tobin Bridge wasn't purchased with Russian rubles, Marcus. It was purchased through an escrow account registered to Kensington Maritime Logistics."

Marcus took an involuntary step back, his foot slipping slightly on the slick floor. "Damien... listen to me. I was coerced. The Romano family... they threatened my family! They said if I didn't provide the transit route, they would ruin me!"