At exactly two o’clock in the morning, a thirsty four-year-old boy padded barefoot into the mahogany hallway of New York’s most ruthless crime syndicate leader and shattered the illusion that had protected him for three years.

Clara didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She slowly reached into her designer handbag, pulled out her sleek smartphone, and dialed a number on speed dial.

"Matteo," she said when he answered.

"Are you alright, mia vita?" his deep voice rumbled through the speaker.

"I'm fine. But there is a piece of trash on the sidewalk outside the Plaza. It needs to be disposed of," Clara said, her eyes locked onto David's.

David’s arrogant smirk faltered. He took a step back, suddenly realizing that the woman standing in front of him was not the broken girl he had abused years ago.

Before David could turn to run, a black van screeched to a halt at the curb. The side door slid open, and four of Matteo's enforcers poured out. They didn't draw guns or make a scene. They simply grabbed David by the arms, clamped a hand over his mouth, and dragged him into the back of the van in broad daylight.

The door slammed shut, and the van sped off, blending into the Chicago traffic as if it had never been there.

Clara calmly put her phone back into her purse. She looked at her bodyguards, who were staring at her with profound respect.

"Let's go home," Clara said, stepping into her SUV.

When she arrived back at the penthouse, Matteo was waiting for her in the study. He pulled her into his arms the second she walked through the doors, checking her for any signs of distress.

"He didn't touch you?" Matteo demanded, his jaw clenched tight.