"My mother hid my 9-month pregnant wife in a subterranean cell beneath our mafia estate—unaware I found the message she carved into the plaster."

Sitting at the head of a thirty-foot mahogany table was my mother, Eleanor Rossi. She wore an immaculate white silk suit, a glass of vintage Barolo in her hand, her silver hair styled in a flawless crown.

Sitting beside her was her younger brother, Uncle Dominic—the family accountant who had spent three years managing our offshore holding trusts.

Riding in an antique silver and lace bassinet beside Eleanor’s armchair was a three-day-old infant wrapped in a soft blue cashmere blanket.

Eleanor lifted her wineglass, a small, triumphant smile touching her lips as she looked down at the sleeping baby.

"The adoption papers from the Zurich clinic are finalized, Dominic," Eleanor said smoothly, her tone calm and unhurried. "The boy will be registered under the Vance name in Switzerland. He will be raised by professionals, away from the influence of that common girl."

Dominic took a slow sip of his whiskey. "And Matteo? He broke through the west wing twenty minutes ago, Eleanor. If he finds out what you did—"

"Matteo is emotional, Dominic," Eleanor interrupted with supreme, icy arrogance. "He will mourn her for a few months, and then he will marry Lord Vane's daughter as we originally planned. I built this family after my husband died. I will not allow a waitress from Chicago to ruin thirty years of bloodline discipline."

BOOM!

The double oak doors of the grand hall were blown off their hinges with a thunderous, deafening crash.

The heavy doors flew twenty feet across the marble floor, smashing into pieces against the mahogany dining table, sending crystal wineglasses and silver platters crashing onto the floor.

Eleanor dropped her glass, the crimson wine spilling across her white silk suit like a splash of fresh blood.

Walking through the smoke and splintered oak, flanked by eight heavily armed Rossi operators, was me.

I wore my rain-soaked dark suit, my hands covered in dark oil and road dust, my face pale, carved from stone, my gray eyes holding a dark, terrifying fury that made Uncle Dominic jump out of his leather chair in pure, unadulterated terror.

"Matteo!" Eleanor gasped, stepping away from the bassinet, her face losing its color for the very first time. "What is the meaning of this barbarism?!"

I didn't answer her.

I walked straight past Uncle Dominic, stepping over the shattered mahogany pieces, stopping beside the silver bassinet.

I reached down with my broad, trembling hands, gently scooping my three-day-old son into my arms, wrapping his cashmere blanket securely around his tiny frame, pressing his dark curls against my chest.

He opened his small hazel eyes—the exact same eyes as Grace—letting out a soft, sweet, healthy squeak against my shirt.