Chapter 1
The crystal chandeliers of the Romano estate’s private dining room cast a brilliant, cinematic light across the long mahogany table. There was no warm yellow tint to soften the edges of the room; the illumination was crisp, natural, and unforgiving, highlighting the opulent wealth of the American mafia dynasty. The walls were lined with heavy, framed family portraits, their gold-leaf edges gleaming above a freestanding wooden chess table positioned near the grand windows. Upholstered dining chairs surrounded the main table, where serving bowls of untouched, extravagant Italian cuisine steamed lightly alongside perfectly folded table linens.
Alessandra Romano, at twenty-eight years old, possessed a beauty that was both breathtakingly adorable and utterly terrifying. She wore a luxurious, deep crimson evening gown that cascaded to her heels, clinging to her elegant figure. Heavy diamond earrings caught the light, and on her right hand, the solid gold family signet ring rested with heavy, undisputed authority. She was the head of the Romano organization, a position she had taken with blood and iron, despite the fair, rosy complexion that made her look like a porcelain doll.
But right now, the most powerful woman in the city was not in the room. She was in the adjoining council chamber, negotiating a million-dollar shipping contract with her capos, completely unaware of the nightmare unfolding a few feet away.
Four-year-old Caleb, Alessandra’s son, sat at the edge of the dining room. His rosy cheeks were pale, his small chest heaving as he struggled against the decorative, silk fabric sash that bound his wrists tightly to the back of an upholstered dining chair.
Standing over him was ten-year-old Mason, Bianca’s son. Dressed in a formal shirt and trousers, Mason possessed the cruel, entitled smirk of a child who had never been disciplined. He looked around the room, ensuring none of the white American adult relatives or bodyguards were paying attention, before turning his malicious gaze back to his younger cousin.
With a sudden, violent shove, Mason pushed the heavy dining chair completely sideways.
Caleb let out a stifled shriek as the chair crashed onto the thick carpet, dragging his small, bound body down with it. Before the four-year-old could even comprehend the fall, Mason stepped forward and delivered a sharp, vicious kick directly into Caleb’s ribs.
Caleb gasped, the air knocked violently from his small lungs. He curled into a tight ball on the carpet, clutching his side, his face contorted in silent agony.
The heavy double doors of the council room swung open. Alessandra stepped out, her sharp American accent cutting through the low murmur of her trailing capos. She stopped dead. Her eyes locked onto her son writhing on the floor.
The elegant mafia boss vanished instantly, replaced by a mother whose blood turned to ice. She sprinted across the room, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood border, her hand already reaching into her gown for her encrypted cell phone to call her private medical team.
Before her fingers could dial, a manicured hand shot out and snatched the phone directly from her grip.
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Francesca Romano, Alessandra’s sixty-four-year-old mother, stood there. Dressed in an impeccable family-dinner outfit draped in heavy pearl jewelry, Francesca looked down at the gasping child with absolute, chilling indifference. Her fair skin was powdered to perfection, her expression carved from stone.
"Boys fight, Alessandra," Francesca said, her voice dripping with cold, aristocratic contempt, completely ignoring the fact that her grandson was bound like an animal. "The weak have no choice but to accept it."
