I'd worked in the Moretti mansion for seventeen days, which apparently was long enough to forget that most people were disenchanted of Dominic.

The snowfall turned into a blinding blizzard by eight o'clock the following evening.

Despite Dominic's strict orders, I couldn't just sit in the third-floor suite counting the seconds. I stayed in the security control room on the second floor alongside Marcus, the head of household monitoring, watching the live feeds broadcast from the Grand Sovereign Hotel downtown. Raphael had rigged a covert audio and video link straight to our encrypted monitors.

The screen shows the opulent ballroom of the Grand Sovereign. Heavy velvet curtains, gold leaf moldings, and a massive oak table surrounded by the five most dangerous men in the Midwest.

Dominic sat at the head of the table. He looked like an emperor among warlords. Raphael stood behind his right shoulder, hand resting near his jacket. On Dominic's left sat Elena, her wrists bound in sleek leather restraints hidden beneath a designer trench coat, two guards standing right behind her chair.

Across the table sat Don Vance—a broad, silver-haired man with cold blue eyes that mirrored his daughter's treachery.

"This is an outrage, Moretti!" Vance slammed his heavy ringed fist onto the table, his voice booming through our speakers. "You drag my daughter out in chains under the guise of a peace summit? You've lost your mind! The stress of your injury has made you delusional!"

The other three syndicate bosses asserted among themselves, casting uneasy glances between Vance and Dominic.

Dominic didn't raise his voice. He casually leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands on the armrests.

"Your daughter didn't just break our contract, Vance," Dominic said, his voice terrifyingly quiet, smooth as velvet and sharp as a razor. "She tampered with my medical supplies, uploaded a virus to my east wing security grid, and spiked my morning water with aconite."

"Lies!" Vance roared, standing up. "Where is the proof?"

Dominic didn't look at Vance. He looked directly at Elena.

"Tell your father," Dominic commanded softly. "Tell him what happens when you fail to kill a Moretti."

Elena sat trembling. The cold confidence she had displayed in the West Parlor two nights ago was completely gone, shattered by forty-eight hours in a dark holding cell under the eyes of Dominic's most brutal interrogators.

"Father..." Elena's voice cracked, tears spilling down her pale cheeks. "It's over. He knows. He has the bank transfers from your Zurich account to the chemist in Detroit. He has everything."

Silence fell over the ballroom like a heavy hammer.

Don Vance froze, his face turning from red to a ghostly, sickly white. The other three syndicate bosses slowly reached into their coats, their bodyguards stepping back to create distance from Vance.

"You idiot," Vance whispered, staring at his daughter with pure hatred.

"You attempted to assassinate the head of the High Council," Dominic said, slowly standing up from his chair. His massive frame dominates the room, the shadow of his authority suffocating everyone present. "By the laws of our foundation, your territories are forfeited. Your men will lay down their arms by midnight, or they will be hunted down as trainers to the alliance."

Vance's eyes darted frantically around the room. He realized in a single terrifying instant that he had been completely revealed.

"I won't give up thirty years of work to a boy!" Vance screamed.

He reached into his breast pocket for a concealed weapon.

Crack.

A single gunshot echoed through the speakers, making me jump in my chair back at the mansion.

Don Vance dropped back into his leather seat, a single clean hole in the center of his forehead. Dominic held his matte-black Glock, smoke drifting lazily from the barrel. He hadn't even flinched.

"The meeting is adjourned," Dominic announced coldly, holstering his weapon without looking at the body on the floor. "Raphael, clear the room. We're going home."

On the monitor, I let out a breath I felt like I'd been holding for hours.

"He did it," I whispered, relief washing over me like a warm tide.

"He always does, Miss Lucy," Marcus said, smiling faintly from the monitor controls. "Now we just need to wait for them to clear the highway back from downtown."