“Put the formula back. And the diapers. All of it.” The voice came from behind me at the customer-service counter.

By seven o'clock the following evening, I barely recognized the woman standing in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of the master suite.

Dante’s personal team had spent the afternoon preparing us. I wore a tailored, floor-length velvet gown in deep emerald green, with a high neck that covered the faint bruise on my collarbone from the night before. My hair was styled in a classic, elegant updo, and diamond drop earrings sparkled at my ears.

Lily was safely asleep in the estate’s nursery, guarded by four armed men and a certified private pediatric nurse Dante had brought in.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Dante stepped inside.

He wore a tailored black tuxedo that made him look impossibly broad-shouldered and commanding. He froze for a split second when he saw me, his grey eyes sweeping over me with an intensity that made my pulse race.

"You look stunning, Sophia," Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, appreciative tone.

"I feel like an imposter," I admitted, nervously adjusting the silver clutch purse in my hand—the purse that contained the cream envelope with the cryptographic key. "I'm an administrative coordinator, Dante. I don't know how to navigate a room full of mob bosses."

Dante walked across the room, stopping directly in front of me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a delicate diamond bracelet, clasping it around my right wrist.

"You don't need to navigate them," Dante said softly, his fingers lingering against my skin. "You just need to stand beside me. Let them see that you are under the absolute protection of the Moretti name."

"And if Victor tries to attack us?"

Dante leaned down, his lips brushing softly against my ear, sending an electric shock straight down my spine. "Then he dies in front of his peers."

Thirty minutes later, Dante’s Maybach pulled up to the rear entrance of the Drake Hotel in downtown Chicago.

The underground ballroom was hosting a masked charitable gala—a public front for the annual gathering of the city’s criminal elite. Men in expensive tuxedos and women in shimmering gowns walked the marble corridors, hiding their ruthless identities behind Venetian silk masks.

Dante offered me his arm. I took it, holding my head high as we stepped into the glittering ballroom.

The room fell noticeably quieter the second Dante Moretti walked in. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry leaves.

At the center of the room, standing near a towering champagne tower, was Victor Belandi.

He was in his late fifties, with slicked-back silver hair, cold blue eyes, and a sharp, cruel face that looked like stone. Beside him stood two heavy-set bodyguards.

When Victor saw Dante—and saw me standing proudly at his side—his eyes flared with a mixture of shock and white-hot fury.

"Dante," Victor said, his voice grating like broken glass as we approached. "I didn't expect you to bring a guest to a private commission meeting."

"I brought the rightful owner of the thirty million dollars you've been searching for, Victor," Dante replied, his voice calm, clear, and carrying across the entire front section of the ballroom.

Victor’s jaw clenched tightly. "You're playing a dangerous game, boy."

"No, Victor," I spoke up, stepping forward beside Dante, looking the man who had tormented my family dead in the eye. "The game is over. I know what you did to my sister."

Victor let out a cold, condescending laugh. "Your sister was a little thief who got in over her head, Miss Bennett. Just like you."

"She wasn't a thief," I said, opening my silver clutch and pulling out the cream envelope, holding it up for every syndicate boss in the room to see. "She was the person who documented every dollar you stole from these very men sitting at this table."

The surrounding mob bosses instantly stood up, their eyes fixing on the envelope.