"Hours before I was supposed to propose to another woman, four six-year-old boys walked into a restaurant bathroom looking so much like me that even I, the man who ran one of Boston’s most powerful crime families, couldn’t move. Then I heard their mother’s voice outside the door—the woman I had loved six years earlier—and suddenly the engagement ring in my pocket meant nothing."

Dominic strode into the grand foyer, his expression carved from granite. Behind him walked Mateo, carrying two heavy duffel bags, followed closely by Clara and the four boys, who stayed close to their mother, wide-eyed at the towering marble pillars, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings of stern-faced Moretti patriarchs lining the walls.

Seated at the massive mahogany dining table at the end of the hall was Don Vincent Moretti—Dominic’s uncle, a silver-haired viper of seventy-two who still fancied himself the true king of Boston.

Vincent looked up from his evening scotch, his eyebrows raising in mild amusement as Dominic entered.

“Well, nephew,” Vincent drawled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I hear the engagement party at the conservatory didn't go quite as planned. Sloane Barrett’s father is already calling my phone demanding explanations. Care to tell me what—?”

Vincent stopped mid-sentence as Clara and the four boys stepped out from the shadows behind Dominic.

The glass slipped from Vincent’s fingers, shattering against the Persian rug as amber liquid spilled across the floor. The old man’s face went chalk white as he stared at the four miniature reflections of Dominic standing in his foyer.

“You...” Vincent whispered, rising slowly from his chair. “You brought them here? Have you lost your bloody mind, Dominic? The media will have a field day! Our enemies will use them as leverage! You’ve put a target on your own blood!”

“The only target in this house was painted by you, Uncle,” Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he closed the distance between them.

Dominic reached across the table, grabbed Vincent by the lapels of his cashmere sweater, and hoisted the older man effortlessly out of his chair, slamming him against the heavy oak paneling of the wall.

“Dominic, stop!” Clara cried out, pulling the boys back slightly, though her eyes flashed with fierce approval.

“Six years ago,” Dominic snarled, his face inches from his uncle’s, “you told me Clara took a payoff and left. You forged her signature. You threatened her family while I was out of the country.”

Vincent gasped for air, his hands clawing weakly at Dominic’s wrists. “It... it was for the family... the succession... a clean bloodline... she didn't belong in our world...!”

“She belongs wherever I am,” Dominic hissed.

With a final, contemptuous shove, Dominic threw Vincent back into his chair. The old man slumped forward, coughing and gasping, realizing in that instant that his reign was over. The crown had shifted, and Dominic was taking the throne on his own terms.

Dominic turned around, walking back toward Clara and the boys. He knelt down in front of Julian, the eldest boy, who stared up at him with intelligent, cautious eyes.

“Hey, buddy,” Dominic said softly, his voice softening entirely as he looked at his son. “I know this is a lot to take in. But I want you to know something. Nobody will ever hurt you, or your brothers, or your mom ever again. I promise you that.”

Julian looked at Dominic, then glanced sideways at Clara. Clara gave a small, trembling nod, wiping a tear from her cheek.