The cold barrel of the gun lifted away from my spine, but the sudden absence of steel didn't stop the shiver that rippled through my bones.

The morning sun broke over the Atlantic with a sharp, brilliant clarity that chased away the lingering shadows of the estate.

By 9:00 AM, the fourth-floor suite had already transformed into a command center. Mrs. Vance and a team of bridal consultants from Fifth Avenue had taken over the master bedroom, laying out swatches of French lace, sketches of custom gowns, and heavy leather folios containing guest lists that read like a master index of corporate titans, federal judges, and underground syndicate bosses.

I sat at a velvet vanity table, letting a stylist pin my hair while I scrolled through a digital tablet detailing the security logistics for the upcoming wedding at St. Jude’s Cathedral.

The door opened without a knock.

Victor walked in, holding a steaming cup of black coffee in one hand and a secure satellite phone in the other. He stopped behind my chair, looking at my reflection in the gilded mirror.

“Mrs. Vance tells me you’ve rejected three different diamond tiaras,” Victor noted, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not wearing a tiara, Victor,” I said firmly, turning slightly to look at him. “I’m not a princess in a fairy tale. I’m a girl from South Boston who used to scrub your baseboards. A tiara is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” Victor countered smoothly. “It’s a statement. When you walk down the aisle of St. Jude’s next month, every capos, every prosecutor, and every rival boss from New York to Montreal needs to understand that you wear the crown of this syndicate right beside me.”

Before I could argue further, Mrs. Vance cleared her throat loudly from across the room.

“Boss,” she interrupted, holding up her own tablet. “We have an urgent notification from the security perimeter gates. Arthur Vance has arrived. Uninvited.”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees instantly.

Victor’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek as the cold, sovereign mask settled back over his features. “Arthur? What does that pathetic old rat want?”

“He says he has information regarding a coalition forming among the North End families,” Mrs. Vance reported, her voice steady. “They’re unhappy about your... alliance with Clara. They view it as a disruption of the traditional power balance.”

Victor let out a cold, dry laugh. “A disruption. They think because I took a wife from outside the bloodlines, the throne is up for grabs.”

He set his coffee cup down on the vanity table, leaned down, and pressed a lingering, possessive kiss to my forehead.

“Stay here, Clara,” Victor commanded softly, his eyes locking onto mine with lethal promise. “I’m going to go downstairs and remind the North End families why they pay tribute to me in the first place.”