The grand hall of the Conti estate went silent when three-year-old Lucia Vitale planted her tiny red shoes on the marble floor and stared up at Damiano Conti.

Within forty-eight hours of the confrontation in the hallway, Damiano had transformed the estate into an impregnable fortress. He brought in his most trusted personal guards, swept the entire property for listening devices, and revoked the access privileges of several senior captains within the Conti syndicate.

In the private family wing—a luxurious, sunlit suite of rooms that had been locked since Damiano's mother passed away—Serena and Lucia were given residence.

Serena sat at a wide mahogany vanity, staring at her reflection. She no longer wore the plain black housekeeper's uniform. She wore a soft, cream-colored wool sweater and dark trousers provided by the estate's personal stylist. Yet, looking at herself in the mirror, she felt like an imposter.

"Laura Conti," she whispered to the quiet room, testing the name on her tongue. It felt heavy, ancient, and dangerous.

Fragments of her forgotten childhood were returning in sudden, disorienting flashes: the smell of sweet lemon ice on a hot summer afternoon; the deep, booming laughter of a woman with dark hair who used to sing her to sleep; and the terrifying image of a tall man with cold eyes standing in a doorway while thunder roared outside.

Vincent Conti. Her uncle. The man who had ordered her mother's murder.

A gentle knock at the door drew her attention.

Damiano stepped inside. He had discarded his suit jacket, wearing only his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked exhausted; dark circles shadowed his eyes, but his posture was as rigid as ever.

"How is she?" Damiano asked, looking toward the adjoining bedroom where Lucia was taking a afternoon nap.

"She's sleeping," Serena—Laura—said quietly, standing up. "She thinks this is a game. She thinks we're staying in a hotel."

Damiano walked over to the window, looking out at the gardens below. "It's better if she thinks that for now."

"Marco told me you called an emergency meeting of the Commission for tomorrow night," Laura said, stepping closer to him. "Is that dangerous?"

Damiano turned to face her. "It's necessary. When Vincent died four years ago, I took control of the family business. But Vincent had old allies—men like Silvio Rossi—who believed that the Conti bloodline should be wiped clean of any competing branches. Silvio was Vincent's right-hand man during the Fairview hit. If he finds out you are alive, he will realize that your mother’s original assets in Brooklyn—assets currently worth over two hundred million dollars—legally belong to you."

Laura shook her head frantically. "I don't want the money, Damiano! I don't care about the business! I just want to keep Lucia safe!"

"I know you don't want it," Damiano said, his voice softening as he looked into her eyes—eyes that carried the exact same warmth as his late cousin Elena's. "But in our world, weakness is an invitation for slaughter. If I try to hide you again, Silvio will find out eventually. The only way to protect you and Lucia is to officially present you to the family as my blood, under my absolute protection."

"And if Silvio refuses to accept it?"

Damiano’s face turned cold as stone. "Then Silvio will join my father in the ground."

Downstairs in the secondary war room, Marco was standing over a large table covered in surveillance maps and tactical reports.

The heavy oak doors opened, and Marco looked up to see Damiano enter.

"The perimeter is secure," Marco reported, pointing to the monitor screens. "I’ve stationed four extra men at the main gate and two on the roof. Silvio Rossi’s car just entered the county line. He’s bringing three of his captains with him for tomorrow's dinner."

Damiano walked up to the table, leaning his hands on the wooden edge. He looked at Marco for a long moment.

"You lied to me for twenty-six years, Marco," Damiano said quietly.

Marco didn't look away. "I did. And if I had to go back to that alley in Brooklyn tonight, I’d make the exact same decision."

Damiano exhaled slowly, reaching out his hand. He placed a firm, heavy grip on Marco's shoulder.

"You saved my cousin's life," Damiano said, his voice tight with deep, unspoken gratitude. "You bore the burden of that secret alone while living under my father's roof. You are more of a brother to me than anyone alive."

Marco let out a breath he felt like he had been holding for two decades. A subtle, rare smile touched his lips. "I’m just glad I don't have to keep paying that orphan fund in Vermont. The accounting was getting ridiculous."

"Tomorrow night will be bloody if Silvio pushes," Damiano warned. "He’s been looking for an excuse to challenge my authority since last winter."

"Let him try," Marco said, his blue eyes gleaming with dangerous resolve. "He’s an old snake who thinks he still runs South Brooklyn. He doesn't know that the world moved on without him."

Just then, the door to the war room cracked open.

A small head peered through the gap.

Lucia, holding her stuffed rabbit by its single ear, stepped into the room. She was wearing her favorite red shoes and an oversized sweater that dragged on the floor.

Both hardened mobsters stopped talking instantly.

"Lucia," Damiano said, his authoritative voice dropping into a gentle, cautious tone. "What are you doing down here? Where is your mother?"

"Mommy is looking at old photos," Lucia announced, marching right up to the tactical table. She looked up at the glowing surveillance monitors with mild interest. "Why are there so many television screens?"

Marco chuckled, kneeling down to her level. "They're for watching the birds outside, kiddo."

Lucia looked at Marco, then pointed her rabbit at Damiano.

"You," she said to Damiano.

Damiano blinked. "Me?"

"You didn't give Barnaby a chair at lunch," Lucia informed him sternly. "He had to sit on the floor. That's three wrong things you've done now."

Marco bit his lip, turning his face away to hide a sudden burst of laughter.

Damiano stared at the three-year-old girl who was completely oblivious to the fact that fifty armed men were currently surrounding the estate to protect her life.

Slowly, carefully, Damiano reached down, pulled a plush leather armchair from the corner of the room, and placed it right beside his own seat at the head of the tactical table.

He looked at Lucia.

"Will this seat be suitable for Barnaby?" Damiano asked with absolute seriousness.

Lucia inspected the leather chair, patted the cushion with her tiny hand, and nodded approvingly.

"Yes," Lucia declared. "You are learning."