The infant had been wailing for four straight hours before Matteo Romano finally broke.

The insult at the gala accelerated the war. The Falcones were humiliated, and they realized that Clara wasn't just a nanny—she was the new heart of the Romano empire.

Two weeks later, Clara insisted on taking Luca to a specialized pediatrician in the Upper East Side for a checkup. Matteo was tied up in a sit-down, so he sent a four-man detail, including Dante, to escort her.

They were ambushed three blocks from the clinic.

Two armored black vans boxed in their SUV. Men with automatic weapons poured out.

"Get down!" Dante roared, throwing the SUV into reverse and slamming into the van behind them.

Gunfire shattered the windows. Clara unbuckled her seatbelt, threw herself over Luca's car seat, and covered his small body entirely with her own. Glass rained down on her back, slicing through her coat.

Dante and the men returned fire, the street devolving into a warzone.

A Falcone soldier managed to rip open the rear door. He aimed his weapon directly at Clara.

Clara didn't scream. She didn't freeze. She grabbed the heavy medical bag at her feet and swung it with all her might, smashing the heavy metal clasp directly into the gunman's face. He stumbled back, and Dante put two bullets in his chest.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The remaining Falcone men scattered.

When Matteo arrived at the secure safehouse twenty minutes later, he looked like a man possessed. He tore through the doors, his eyes wild, searching for blood.

He found Clara sitting on a sofa, rocking a crying but unharmed Luca. Clara’s coat was shredded, and a line of blood trickled down her cheek from a flying shard of glass, but she was calm.

Matteo fell to his knees in front of her. He didn't look at his men. He didn't ask for a sitrep. He buried his face into Clara’s neck, his broad shoulders shaking.

"They almost took you," he choked out, the ruthless mob boss entirely broken by the thought of losing her. "They almost took both of you."