Seven Christmases after Dominic Russo looked his wife in the courthouse eye and said, “You’re dead to me,” a seven-year-old boy opened her door wearing striped socks—and Dominic saw his own gray eyes staring back at him.

The click of Vincent’s car door opening sounded like a gunshot in the silent, snow-covered street.

Dominic didn’t look back at Grace. He didn’t need to. The terror radiating from her was a physical force, pressing against his spine. He stepped off her porch, his heavy wool coat swallowing the freezing wind, and closed her front door firmly behind him. The lock clicked shut.

"Vincent," Dominic said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that cut through the howling wind.

His uncle stood beside the black sedan, a smug, paternal smile stretching across his weathered, scarred face. Vincent Russo was the man who had raised Dominic after his father’s death. He was the underboss who had taught him that weakness was a death sentence and that loyalty was paid in blood.

"Dominic," Vincent said, patting his coat pocket. "I saw your car leave the estate. I worried about you. A man in your position shouldn't be wandering the suburbs without security. Especially not here." Vincent’s eyes drifted past Dominic’s shoulder toward the glowing window of Grace’s house. "I thought we agreed this trash was swept out of Chicago seven years ago."

Dominic’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The image of the photograph Grace had just shown him—of Vincent holding a cold steel barrel against her pregnant belly—burned into his retinas. For seven years, he had believed his uncle. He had believed the doctored financial ledger. He had believed the photographs of Grace meeting with the Valetti family.

He had believed a monster.

"I came to leave a parting gift," Dominic said, his voice flat, devoid of the volatile rage tearing through his chest. He held up the crushed, wrapped box, letting the faint red tracker light blink between his fingers. He squeezed his fist. The plastic housing of the tracker shattered inside the box. "I didn't realize you were tracking my personal vehicle, Uncle."

Vincent’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened. "A safety precaution, Nephew. You are the head of the family now. Your safety is my priority. But it seems you’ve found something... unexpected." He took a slow step forward, his leather shoes crunching on the fresh snow. "She’s a distraction, Dominic. She always was. Whatever she told you inside—"

"She told me nothing," Dominic lied smoothly, stepping into Vincent’s path, his towering frame completely blocking his uncle's view of the house. "She threw me out. Just as she did seven years ago."

Vincent searched Dominic’s face, looking for the crack, the telltale sign of the hot-blooded boy he used to control. But Dominic had spent seven years freezing his heart in blocks of ice. He gave Vincent nothing but a blank, lethal stare.

"Good," Vincent muttered, though his hand remained close to his inner jacket pocket. "Then let’s go home. The capos are waiting at the club. We have business to discuss before the holiday."

"Go ahead," Dominic said. "I have one errand to run. Alone."

Vincent hesitated, his gaze darting to the upstairs window of the house, where a small shadow stood against the glass. Noah. Dominic felt a primal, terrifying urge to rip Vincent’s throat out right there on the pavement. But he couldn't. Not with his son watching. Not with Grace inside, unprotected.

"Don't keep them waiting too long, Dominic," Vincent said softly. "The family expects its leader to be focused."

Dominic watched the black sedan pull away, its red taillights bleeding into the falling snow. Only when the car vanished around the corner did Dominic look up at the second-story window.