By midnight, Boston was burning, though the fires were invisible to the evening news.

The Moretti family, humiliated and trapped, had retaliated. Two of Raphael’s warehouses on the harbor were hit. Three of his lieutenants were ambushed. Lorenzo Moretti had issued a bounty: one million dollars for the head of Raphael Duca, and half a million for the maid who had humiliated his daughter.

Raphael sat in his library. The bottle of Barolo—the one meant for his wedding day—sat on the oak table. He picked it up, walked to the fireplace, and smashed it against the brick. The red wine bled across the hearth.

He didn't need the wine. He didn't need the past.

Milo entered the library. "Boss. They’re mobilizing. Lorenzo has called in favors from New York. They’re coming for the house."

"Let them come," Raphael said, unbuttoning his suit jacket and pulling a heavy, matte-black sidearm from his shoulder holster. He placed it on the desk. "Double the guard on the second floor. Mrs. Dora is to stay in the sewing room with the child. Do not let Noel look out the windows."

Upstairs, Clara lay in the dark, clutching the silk sheets. She could hear the heavy footsteps of men moving in the corridors, the metallic clicks of rifles being loaded. She had brought a war to this silent, beautiful house.

Her chest tightened. The familiar, terrifying pressure built behind her ribs. She tried to breathe, to count to thirty like she always did, but the air wouldn't come.

She reached for the bedside table, knocking a glass of water to the floor. The sound shattered the silence.

Seconds later, the door burst open. Raphael stood in the doorway, weapon drawn, expecting assassins. Instead, he found Clara collapsed on the floor, gasping for air, her lips turning a faint shade of blue.