Adrien sat in his primary office on the top floor of the Moretti Transport Building in West Loop.

The room was paneled in dark walnut, lined with leather armchairs, panoramic windows looking out over the Chicago River, and four monitors displaying shipping logistics feeds.

His younger brother, Dante Moretti—a handsome thirty-two-year-old in an unbuttoned silk shirt—sat on the edge of the mahogany desk, holding a glass of bourbon, chuckling softly.

"You gave her your personal lapel pin, Adrien?" Dante laughed, shaking his head in disbelieving awe. "The pin that gives direct command over the district lieutenants? You gave it to a pastry chef because her five-year-old asked if you snore?"

Adrien didn't answer. He sat behind his desk, reviewing shipping manifests, his face unreadable.

"She’s special, Adrien," Dante added, his tone softening into genuine warmth. "I met her six months ago when she catered my secondary charity gala. She raised those three girls without a single dollar from their deadbeat father. She works from four in the morning until eight at night, and she won't take a dime she didn't earn."

"She made it clear she wants nothing to do with us, Dante," Adrien said smoothly, setting his gold pen down.

"She wants to protect her kids, Adrien," Dante corrected gently. "There's a difference."

Before Adrien could reply, his chief of security, Marco, burst into the office without knocking. His face was pale, his radio buzzing with static.

"Boss," Marco reported urgently. "We have a structural fire at the River North commercial block. It’s Clara’s Sweets."

Adrien stood up so fast his heavy leather armchair crashed backward against the glass window.

"What happened?" Adrien’s baritone cut through the room like shattered steel.

"Frankie's crew," Marco revealed grimly. "They were furious about being embarrassed at Ferrante's three nights ago. They threw two incendiary bottles through the bakery’s back kitchen window ten minutes ago. Clara and the triplets live in the apartment on the second floor above the shop."

The glass of bourbon slipped from Dante’s fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor.

Adrien didn't speak another word.

He pulled his heavy wool coat from the rack, snatched his keys, and sprinted down the private elevator bank toward his armored sedan, his gray eyes burning with a dark, terrifying fury that Chicago hadn't seen in eleven years.