THE MAFIA BOSS TOOK ONE BITE OF MY MOTHER'S RECIPE—AND UNCOVERED THE DEADLY LIE HE BURIED SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO

Before Luca could react, Matteo moved.

With the speed of a striking viper that defied his age and size, Matteo lunged across the desk. His hands clamped onto Luca’s gun wrist, twisting it violently downward. A suppressed gunshot discharged into the floorboards, splintering the antique oak.

"Elena! Down!" Matteo roared.

I didn't hesitate. I dropped flat behind the heavy mahogany desk, covering my head as another sniper round punched through the library window, decapitating the second gunman by the door.

Glass rained down upon the Persian carpets. The cold November wind rushed into the room, sending dozens of loose ledger pages, old court documents, and recipe notes swirling into the air like a storm of dead leaves.

Matteo drove his elbow into Luca's throat. Luca gasped, staggering back against the stone fireplace, his pistol clattering across the hearth. But Luca was twenty years younger, built like an ox, and driven by pure survival. He pulled a serrated combat knife from his tactical belt and slashed diagonally upward.

The blade caught Matteo across the forearm, slicing through the wool sweater and carving a deep, bloody trough into his flesh.

Matteo didn't cry out. He didn't even flinch. He absorbed the strike, closed the distance, and drove his head directly into Luca's nose with a sickening crunch of cartilage.

Luca staggered, blood gushing from his face, swinging the knife blindly.

I saw the fallen pistol lying three feet from the edge of the desk.

Seventeen years of running. Seventeen years of watching my mother scrub floors, work double shifts, weep in the dark because she was terrified that every car slowing down outside our window carried our executions. Eleven years of living like an orphan in squalor while these men lived in limestone palaces built on our blood.

Something inside me broke—or perhaps, something that had been buried deep inside my bloodline finally woke up.

I lunged from behind the desk, grabbed the cold steel of the suppressed 9mm, gripped it with both hands, and leveled it at Luca's chest.

"Back away from him!" I screamed.

Luca froze. Blood was dripping down his chin, his breath rattling in his crushed throat. He looked at me, then at the gun in my hands. The weapon didn't shake. I had never fired a gun in my life, but the weight of it felt natural, cold, and absolute.

"You won't shoot," Luca spat, coughing blood onto the carpet. "You're a waitress. You make pasta. You don't have the stomach for this."

"She is a De Luca," Matteo breathed, standing up straight, his bloody arm hanging at his side, his dark eyes burning with pride and ruthless vengeance. "And you just broke into her home."

Luca lunged forward, raising the knife.

I pulled the trigger.

The suppressed gunshot was a soft, sharp *thwack*. The bullet caught Luca squarely in the right shoulder, spinning him violently around. He collapsed against the mantle, the knife slipping from his fingers, groaning in agony as he clutched his shattered joint.

Footsteps pounded up the spiral staircase outside the library. Four men in black tactical gear—not Luca's men, but Matteo's personal inner guard, led by an older man with gray hair and an assault rifle—flooded into the room, their weapons instantly trained on the collapsed traitor.

"Check the perimeter," Matteo commanded, breathing heavily, not taking his eyes off Luca. "Secure the grounds. Call Dr. Vance back here. We have work to do."

Matteo walked slowly over to where Luca lay bleeding on the hearth. He bent down, picked up the antique three-notched fork that had fallen from the desk during the chaos, and held it before Luca's eyes.

"You used this fork twice, Luca," Matteo said softly. "Once against me. And once against my daughter. Now you are going to tell me every name on the Commission that signed off on this."

"Go to hell, Matteo," Luca wheezed, blood bubbling on his lips. "Kill me. Salvatore should have buried you seventeen years ago."

Matteo didn't kill him. Instead, he drove the three tines of the antique silver fork straight through the palm of Luca's right hand, pinning it to the hardwood floor.