"You've been stealing from me." Elena Moretti set down her cleaning cloth, turned around slowly, and looked the most feared man in Chicago directly in the eyes. She did not flinch. She did not apologize.

By eight o'clock in the evening, the Valente estate had been transformed into a sparkling palace of light, music, and hidden danger.

Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow across the polished marble floors of the main ballroom—the very room where Elena had danced alone in the dark forty-eight hours ago. A live string quartet played soft classical arrangements in the corner. Women in sweeping silk gowns and men in tailored tuxedos moved across the floor, sipping vintage champagne and exchanging polite, deceitful smiles.

Outside, armed guards disguised as valet attendants secured the perimeter. Inside, Marco Reyes moved through the crowd in a sharp black tuxedo, an earpiece tucked discreetly into his ear, his eyes constantly scanning the room.

Juliana stood near the bar, looking elegant in a dark navy evening gown, holding a small clutch purse against her side. Her hands were tight around the leather casing.

Matteo stood near the top of the grand marble staircase, a glass of bourbon in his hand, looking down at the gathering like a king surveying a court of potential traitors.

Then, the heavy oak doors at the entrance opened, and the room seemed to lose its breath for a fraction of a second.

Elena walked down the staircase.

She wore a breathtaking, emerald-green silk dress that draped perfectly against her frame, exposing her collarbones and clinging softly to her waist before flowing down to the floor. Her dark hair was styled in soft, elegant waves falling over one shoulder. She wore no heavy jewelry—only a pair of simple diamond studs—but her posture was commanding, effortless, and radiant.

Matteo felt his breath hitch in his chest. He had seen her in her grey uniform. He had seen her in his oversized white shirt. But seeing her like this—a princess of the fallen D'Agostino line reclaiming her natural grace— completely paralyzed him.

Below, Marco Reyes froze, his jaw tightening as he stared up at the staircase. Beside him, Juliana’s eyes widened in sheer, disbelieving shock.

Elena descended the stairs slowly, her eyes locked onto Matteo at the top. She reached the landing, and Matteo offered his arm.

"You look extraordinary, Miss Moretti," Matteo said softly, his voice low enough that only she could hear over the music.

"I feel like a target," Elena murmured, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her skin was warm against his wool suit. "Juliana is staring at us. She knows something is wrong."

"Good," Matteo replied smoothly, placing his hand over hers. "Let her panic. Panic leads to mistakes."

They moved down into the main crowd together. The whispers started instantly.

"Who is she?"

"Is that a D'Agostino?"

"Since when does Valente bring a date to his foundation gala?"

Matteo ignored them all, guiding Elena through the sea of guests toward the open terrace doors.

"Keep your eyes on the bar," Matteo instructed quietly as they paused near a marble pillar. "Juliana just signaled someone near the garden entrance."

Elena adjusted her posture, making it look as though she were admiring the garden lights, while her sharp eyes tracked Juliana’s movements.

A tall man in a dark grey tuxedo, with slicked-back silver hair and a distinct scar running down his left jawline, detached himself from the shadow of the garden arches and began walking toward Juliana.

Elena’s blood turned to ice. She gripped Matteo’s arm tightly, her nails digging into his sleeve.

"What is it?" Matteo asked instantly, sensing the sudden terror in her body.

"That man," Elena whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "The one with the silver hair."

"Victor Vance," Matteo identified, his voice turning to iron. "The head of the Syndicate's financial board in Chicago. What about him?"

"He isn't just a financial officer," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the man as he approached Juliana. "He was my uncle Leo’s chief accountant five years ago. He was the one who sold my family out to your father during the war. And he's the man who killed my father."

Matteo looked down at Elena. Her face was pale, but her eyes were burning with a cold, terrifying fury that rivaled his own.

"He didn't just order the theft of the watch," Elena realized, her breath coming fast. "Victor Vance is using Juliana and Marco to take your eighty million dollars, wipe out the last of the Valente leadership, and finish off the D'Agostino name once and for all."

Across the room, Juliana reached into her clutch purse, pulled out a small velvet pouch containing the Seiko watch, and slipped it smoothly into Victor Vance's coat pocket as they brushed past each other.

Vance smiled, patted his pocket, and turned toward the private side exit leading to the estate's helipad.

"He has the watch," Elena said.

Matteo set his bourbon glass down on a passing server's tray. The calm, calculated businessman vanished, replaced instantly by the lethal apex predator of Chicago.

"Marco," Matteo spoke into his hidden lapel microphone. "Lock down the estate perimeter. Nobody leaves."

A static click echoed in his ear, followed by silence. Marco didn't answer.

Matteo checked his wrist display. The security frequency had been jammed from inside the mansion.

"Marco has already turned," Matteo said quietly to Elena. "We're on our own."

Elena looked at the side exit where Victor Vance had just disappeared, then looked at Matteo.

"No," Elena said, reaching into the hidden thigh slit of her silk dress and pulling out a small, sleek chrome automatic pistol she had concealed earlier. "We aren't on our own. We have each other."