MY FOUR-YEAR-OLD SON SAT BESIDE A DYING CRIME BOSS—THEN HE WHISPERED THE NAME HIS MOST TRUSTED MAN FEARED IN THAT LOCKED ROOM

The color drained entirely from Eleanor’s face. Her jaw dropped open, and she let out a strangled, breathless gasp as if she had just been struck by lightning.

Every single capo in the room spun around, their weapons dropping slightly in sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

Stepping out from the shadows of the hallway vestibule, leaning heavily on a wooden cane, was Vincent Hale.

He looked pale, hollow-cheeked, and exhausted, wearing a dark silk bathrobe over his hospital gown, but he was undeniably, impossibly alive.

"V-Vincent?" Eleanor stuttered, her voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak of pure terror. "No... no, that's impossible. Dr. Warren injected you! The heart monitor flatlined! I watched you die!"

Vincent chuckled—a low, raspy sound that resonated with the dark authority of a man who had cheated death more times than his enemies could count.

"Dr. Warren is my physician, Eleanor," Vincent said, stepping slowly into the light of the chandelier, his dark eyes fixed entirely on his sister. "He reports to me. Not to you. And that heart monitor? A very convincing Hollywood prop courtesy of my private security detail."

Salvatore Marcone burst out into a loud, booming laugh, clapping his massive hands together. "You old bastard! You faked your own death to flush out the rat!"

"Not just a rat, Salvatore," Vincent replied, stopping three feet away from Eleanor’s wheelchair. He looked down at his sister with a gaze colder than deep-space ice. "A viper in my own house."

Eleanor shook violently, tears of rage and humiliation spilling down her cheeks. "You pathetic hypocrite! You paralyzed me! You locked me in that east wing for a decade while you ruled the city! Did you expect me to just sit there and smile?"

"I paralyzed you," Vincent said quietly, his voice dropping into a devastating register, "because you tried to poison our father when we were twenty years old, Eleanor. I saved your life by keeping you locked inside this estate where you couldn't murder anyone else. And you repaid me by poisoning my tea."

Vincent turned his gaze toward me and Owen, softening his expression just a fraction.

"Claire," Vincent said respectfully. "I am deeply sorry for dragging you and your son into this war. Your employment contract was a test—one you passed with flying colors. The front gates are open whenever you wish to leave. And your bank account has already been credited with five million dollars for your trouble."

I clutched Owen tighter, my breath catching in my throat as I processed the life-changing sum. But my eyes darted to Grant, who was still standing near the wall with his hands raised.

"What about them?" I asked, nodding toward Eleanor and Grant.

Vincent turned back to Salvatore and the other capos. "The syndicate handles its own internal affairs. Eleanor will be relocated to a facility where she can never harm another human being. And Grant..."