A six-year-old girl saved a feared New York mafia boss after he collapsed on a Manhattan sidewalk, while everyone else stood back and watched. Three days later, he tracked the poor child to her sick mother in Queens, and froze when he saw the little girl’s eyes, because they were exactly like his.

The peace lasted for precisely three weeks.

In our world, peace was never a destination; it was merely an intermission between storms.

It started with a coded phone call from Marco while I was sitting in the courtyard helping Lily build a castle out of wooden blocks.

"Boss, we have an issue," Marco's voice came through the encrypted line, tight and urgent. "Salvatore hasn't been seen at his usual spots in Brooklyn for forty-eight hours. And his top enforcer, Frankie Nails, just moved six men into a safehouse three blocks away from the brownstone."

My hand froze over a wooden block tower. Lily looked up, tilting her head. "Is everything okay, Daddy?"

"Everything's fine, sweetheart," I said, forcing a calm smile. "Keep building. I'll be right back."

I walked inside, pulling the heavy oak doors shut, my voice dropping into an arctic chill. "What are they planning, Marco?"

"They're not waiting for a commission vote," Marco said grimly. "Salvatore knows he can't touch you directly with all the security around the brownstone. So he's planning a snatch-and-grab. He's going for Elena and the girl."

A cold rage, sharp and blinding, surged through my veins. For seven years, I had played by the rules of the underworld. I had kept the peace, managed the territories, and respected the boundaries. But the moment someone aimed their sights at my family, the rules ceased to exist.

"Where is Salvatore right now?" I asked.

"The social club on Mulberry Street. He's holding a meeting with his inner circle to finalize the hit."

"Gather the loyalists," I said quietly. "Every man we have in Manhattan and Queens. Full tactical gear. We're ending this tonight."

"Boss, if we hit Salvatore on his own turf, it's going to look like a full-scale civil war," Marco warned.

"Let it look like a war," I replied. "When I'm done, there won't be anyone left to question who runs the city."

Before I left, I walked into the kitchen where Elena was sitting with a cup of chamomile tea. She took one look at my face—the hard set of my jaw, the dark fire in my eyes—and her cup clattered against the saucer.

"You're going after him," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"I have to," I said, walking over and placing my hands on her shoulders. "He's coming for you and Lily. I won't let him breathe."