I stood in the VIP lounge on the second floor, wearing a stunning, backless midnight-blue evening gown that Dominic’s personal stylist had abruptly had delivered to my room that afternoon. On my arm stood Dominic Vale—tall, imposing, and radiating an aura of lethal elegance that made high-rolling gamblers step out of our way before we even reached them.

"Remember your instructions," Dominic muttered quietly as we approached the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse suite. "Stay behind me. If lead starts flying, drop to the floor and do not move."

"I am not a piece of delicate china, Dominic," I whispered back fiercely, adjusting the small, concealed nickel-plated pistol strapped to my thigh beneath the slit of my dress—a parting gift from Dominic’s armory.

Dominic raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement crossing his stern features. "Remind me never to cross you, Claire Mercer."

The heavy oak doors swung open.

Inside the smoke-filled penthouse suite sat Viktor Rostov—a massive, scarred Russian mobster with cold blue eyes and gold rings on every finger, surrounded by a dozen armed thugs.

Viktor stood up, spreading his arms wide with theatrical warmth.

"Dominic! My brother!" Viktor boomed, his accent thick and grating. "I heard about the traitor Marcus. Terrible business. But please, tell me why you brought a civilian to a family meeting?"

Dominic didn't smile. He walked straight to the center of the room, pulling out a chair for me before taking a seat himself.

"Claire isn't a civilian, Viktor," Dominic said smoothly, resting his hands flat on the glass table. "She’s my new advisor. She has a very unique talent for uncovering... hidden expenses."

Viktor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, pouring two glasses of vodka. "Expenses? Ah, yes. The bombing investigation. A tragedy. But surely you don't think I had anything to do with it?"

"Marcus left a ledger," Dominic lied seamlessly, his voice calm and deadpan. "Every wire transfer from your Swiss accounts to Marcus’s offshore shell companies. Timestamped, signed, and verified."

Viktor’s face went rigid. The jovial mob boss vanished, replaced by a cornered animal.

"You bluffing son of a bitch," Viktor hissed, signaling his men to reach for their weapons.

Before the Russians could clear leather, Dominic had already drawn his Sig Nexter, leveling it squarely at Viktor’s forehead with terrifying speed.

At the same time, I slid the hidden pistol from my thigh, raised it, and shot the chandelier chain directly above the Russian guards.

CRASH.

Thousands of shards of crystal rained down over the thugs, blinding them in the sudden shower of glass and sparks. In the absolute chaos, Dominic vaulted across the glass table, tackling Viktor to the floor and pressing his boot directly against the Russian’s throat.

"You killed my wife, Viktor," Dominic whispered, the sound vibrating with lethal fury. "You used my own man to tear my family apart."

"Wait—wait!" Viktor choked out, blood trickling from his nose. "I didn't want war, Dominic! It was a joint venture! The Mercers—the old Mercer loyalists helped fund it! They wanted you dead to reclaim Chicago!"

Dominic froze. He slowly turned his head, looking up from the floor to meet my eyes across the wrecked room.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Mercer loyalists.

There were still rogue factions of my family operating in the shadows—people who blamed Dominic for the old wars and wanted him dead just as badly as the Russians did.