Catching sight of the elderly woman, Celia Arden’s polished smile briefly faltered.

He gently pried her fingers from his arm, giving her hand a brief, reassuring squeeze before turning his broad shoulders toward the door. He slipped out into the hallway, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. Clara immediately threw the deadbolt, pressing her back against the wood, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm alongside the sleeping old woman.

The grand foyer of the Westbrook estate was a cavernous space of polished cream marble and soaring archways. Damian descended the sweeping marble staircase with measured, deliberate steps. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the intricate, refined tattoos wrapping around his muscular forearms.

Standing in the center of the foyer, surrounded by six of Damian’s heavily armed enforcers, was Victor Arden. Celia’s father was a ruthless, aging capo, his face flushed with arrogant rage.

"Where is my daughter, Westbrook?" Victor demanded, his voice echoing loudly in the cold space. "You cannot hold an Arden hostage in your own home!"

Damian stopped on the final step, towering over the older capo. His cold, observant eyes analyzed Victor with clinical detachment.

"Do you believe you give orders in my home, Victor?" Damian asked, his deep voice a low, terrifying rumble.

"Release Celia right now, or the alliance is dead, and we go to war," Victor spat.

"Are you willing to die for a woman who sells children and poisons foundations?" Damian asked, his jaw settling into a sharp, uncompromising line.

Victor sneered, trying to maintain his bravado. "It was an accident! You are letting a senile old woman and a maid dictate the politics of the entire eastern seaboard!"

"Do you consider the premeditated trafficking of my city's vulnerable to be mere politics?" Damian inquired, stepping off the stairs and closing the distance between them until he was mere inches from Victor’s face.

"It's business!" Victor shouted. "And right now, business dictates that you hand her over before I burn this place down!"

"Shall we see how much your business is worth when it is buried in ashes?" Damian asked softly.

He didn't wait for Victor to draw a weapon. Damian moved with blinding speed, his tattooed hand closing like a steel vice around Victor's throat, lifting the older capo off the floor.

"Did you think I would let you leave this house alive after what your blood tried to do to mine?" Damian asked, his eyes burning with absolute, murderous intent.

The sound of weapons cocking echoed through the foyer, signaling the beginning of a bloody, uncompromising war. Damian threw the older man backward, drawing his own suppressed weapon in a single, fluid motion as the grand foyer erupted into deafening violence. The marble shattered around them as the Arden enforcers opened fire, returning the deadly barrage from the Westbrook syndicate.

Upstairs, the sounds of the battle were muffled but unmistakably terrifying. Clara sat on the floor of the guest suite, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. She held a heavy brass candlestick she had taken from the mantle, her knuckles white. Margaret remained fast asleep, entirely exhausted, oblivious to the fact that an army of mafia hitmen were trying to burn her sanctuary down.

Clara’s sophisticated black maid dress was covered in dust that had shaken loose from the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying for the imposing mafia boss who had promised to protect them.

Suddenly, the handle of the bedroom door rattled violently.

Clara gasped, scrambling backward, raising the heavy brass candlestick. "Who is it?" she cried out, her voice shaking.