Lorenzo Rossi was a man whose name was whispered in dark alleys and marble boardrooms alike. He was a feared Mafia boss who could make powerful men disappear with a single phone call.

The heat hit us like a physical wall. The eastern wing of the Rossi mansion was already swallowed by aggressive orange flames that licked at the ancient wallpaper and painted ceilings. The smoke was thick, black, and smelling heavily of accelerator.

"Cover his mouth!" Lorenzo shouted over the roar of the fire.

I pulled the collar of my cotton uniform dress over Leo’s face, curling my body around his small frame to act as a shield against the intense heat and falling embers. Lorenzo pulled his suit jacket off and draped it over both of us, using his massive body to plow through the burning corridor.

Gunfire suddenly erupted from the end of the hall.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Bullets tore through the plaster walls near our heads. Julian hadn't left the house yet; he had left two of his loyal mercenaries at the top of the grand staircase to ensure no one made it out of the upper level.

Lorenzo didn't pause. He drew his weapon and fired three rapid shots through the thick smoke with terrifying precision. Two heavy bodies hit the wooden floorboards with dull thuds.

He grabbed my arm with a grip like an iron vise, pulling me forward past the fallen men. "Down the servant stairs! Move!"

We spiraled down the narrow stone staircase at the back of the mansion, where the fire hadn't fully caught yet. My lungs burned from the little smoke I had inhaled, and my legs felt weak, but the feeling of the tiny heart beating against my chest kept me moving. Leo wasn't crying anymore; he was quiet, tucked safely against my chest, kept warm and fed.

We burst out through the heavy iron kitchen doors into the cold, crisp night air of the rear courtyard.

Rain was pouring down, washing away the soot on my face. In the driveway, three black SUVs were idling, their headlights cutting through the downpour.

A group of armed men stepped out of the shadows of the garage, weapons raised. But before they could fire, Lorenzo shouted a phrase in rapid Italian.

The men immediately lowered their weapons, looking shocked.

"Sir!" the lead guard shouted, rushing toward us. "The security console said there was an electrical fire—"

"Julian has turned," Lorenzo interrupted, his voice like crackling ice. "He locked us in the nursery. He set the fuel lines. Secure the perimeter. Kill anyone who hesitates to lay down their arms."

The guards didn't ask questions. They instantly fanned out into tactical formations, charging toward the burning mansion with ruthless efficiency.

Lorenzo turned to me. He looked down at his son, who was safely cocooned beneath my coat, completely untouched by the fire.

He reached out a single, large hand—his knuckles bruised and stained with gunpowder—and gently brushed a lock of wet hair from my forehead. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that my heart skipped a beat.

"You saved him," Lorenzo whispered, his voice dark and rough.

"I just... I couldn't let him die," I stammered, shivering violently as the cold rain soaked through my thin clothes.

Before Lorenzo could say another word, a high-pitched siren wailed in the distance, and the sound of heavy tires screeching on gravel echoed from the main entrance gates.

A silver sedan breached the front courtyard, spinning out near the fountain. The driver’s door flew open, and a man stepped out into the rain, holding a heavy shotgun.