The first thing Elena Rostova learned about the Marchesi family was that nobody mentioned them unless they were already terrified.

The grand foyer of the Weston estate was eerily quiet when the double front doors were pulled open by two of Marcus’s newly appointed mercenaries.

Julian stepped across the threshold first, his long wool coat swishing around his legs, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Elena walked half a step behind him, keeping her eyes lowered, acting the part of the chastened, captured fugitive being returned for punishment.

Marcus was waiting at the top of the grand marble staircase.

He wore a bespoke silver suit, a crystal glass of scotch in his hand, looking down at them with the smug, arrogant superiority of a king surveying his newly conquered domain. Flanking him on the landing were four heavily armed men with tactical carbines resting across their chests.

"Well, well," Marcus drawled, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "I must admit, Julian, I was impressed when my scouts reported you'd personally tracked the governess down to Canada. I assumed you'd simply have Thomas dump her body in the St. Lawrence River. Bringing her back here for a public execution is a bit theatrical, even for you."

Julian stopped at the base of the stairs, not looking up at his underboss. He slowly peeled off his leather gloves, handing them to Thomas, who stood like a stone statue near the doorway.

"Treason requires a public demonstration, Marcus," Julian said, his voice a flat, mechanical drone that betrayed no emotion whatsoever. "Otherwise, the staff begins to believe that loyalty is optional."

"True enough," Marcus smiled, taking a sip of his scotch as he began to slowly descend the stairs, his four armed guards moving in synchronization with him. "Which brings us to a minor administrative change in the household agenda, Julian. The Barone family reached out to my private office this morning while you were out of the state."

Julian’s gaze flicked upward, sharp as a blade. "Did they?"

"They made a very compelling argument," Marcus continued, reaching the halfway landing and stopping ten feet above them. "They pointed out that a syndicate ruled by a grieving widower who obsesses over nursery schedules and domestic help is a liability to the entire New England crime commission. They offered me absolute control of the north harbor shipping routes... in exchange for a change in leadership."

Marcus raised his left hand, snapping his fingers twice.

Instantly, the six mercenaries lounging by the front doors drew their weapons, cocking the slides with a synchronized, terrifying rattle of steel. They didn't point the guns at the perimeter; they aimed them directly at Julian’s back and Elena’s chest.

"You see, Julian," Marcus sneered, looking down from the stairs with cold, triumphant malice, "the forged dossier wasn't just to get rid of the girl. It was to get you out of the city for twenty-four hours so I could replace your perimeter security with men who understand that profit is vastly more important than bloodlines. This house isn't yours anymore. It belongs to me."

Julian didn't flinch at the six firearms aimed at his spine. He slowly looked up at Marcus, his stormy gray eyes entirely devoid of fear. In fact, the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a cold, terrifying smirk.

"You made one catastrophic mathematical error in your calculations, Marcus," Julian murmured, his voice echoing clearly through the silent foyer.

Marcus frowned, his arrogant smile faltering slightly. "And what would that be?"