At 2:07 in the morning, Dominic Russo came home with blood on his cuff and murder on his mind—then stopped dead in the doorway of his own kitchen because the young maid everyone in his mansion treated like furniture was dancing barefoot under the stove light as though she had been waiting her whole life for one private moment to feel beautiful.

By seven o'clock the following evening, the atmosphere inside the Russo mansion had shifted from quiet opulence to heavy, suffocating tension.

Outside, rain continued to fall in relentless sheets. Inside, the grand dining room was blazing with light from the crystal chandeliers. Heavy black SUVs sat idling in the circular driveway, their tinted windows hiding armed men holding automatic rifles.

Bea stood near the second-floor railing, hidden behind a large marble pillar, watching the arrivals.

Dominic’s younger brother, Frankie Russo, was hard to miss. He was thirty-two, sharply dressed in a tailored double-breasted suit, but lacked Dominic’s disciplined, quiet authority. Frankie was louder, sharper, his eyes constantly darting around the room as if searching for something to claim or conquer. Behind him walked ten heavily built men in dark suits, their leather shoulder holsters bulging beneath their jackets.

Dominic stood at the base of the staircase, dressed in a sleek black suit with no tie. He looked every bit the king of an empire built on steel and blood.

“Dominic!” Frankie boomed, throwing his arms out as he approached his older brother. “The Long Island fortress looks as grim as ever! You should hire some entertainment, brother. It feels like a monastery in here.”

“This is my home, Frankie, not a club,” Dominic replied smoothly, accepting a brief shoulder pat without a trace of warmth. “Let’s get the business done so you can leave before the roads flood.”

Bea pulled back behind the pillar, her heart racing. Dominic had been entirely right: these men carried a dangerous, volatile energy that made her instinct to hide kick into overdrive.

She turned to head back toward Leo’s room, but as she stepped into the dimly lit service hallway leading to the east wing, a figure stepped out from the pantry.

It was Paulie—one of Frankie’s personal lieutenants. He was a broad, thick-necked man in his late thirties, smelling heavily of cheap cologne and expensive gin.

He stopped dead when he saw Bea.

His small, dark eyes swept over her baggy navy cardigan, her loose curls, and the flush rising on her soft cheeks. A slow, greasy grin spread across his face.

“Well, well,” Paulie sneered, stepping directly into her path so she couldn't pass. “Where has Dominic been hiding you? They told me the staff here was all seventy years old.”

Bea froze, every muscle in her body locking up. “Excuse me, sir. I need to get back to the nursery.”

“Nursery?” Paulie chuckled, taking a step closer. He reached out a thick, calloused hand, catching the edge of her cardigan between his fingers. “You don't look like a nanny to me, sweetheart. You look like a little secret.”

“Let go of me,” Bea said, trying to keep her voice steady, but the quiver in her tone betrayed her terror. She pulled back, but Paulie’s grip on her cardigan tightened.

“Don't be like that,” Paulie rasped, leaning in closer. “I’m Frankie’s top guy. You treat me nice, and maybe I’ll slip a hundred-dollar bill into those sweet little pockets of yours—”

“She said let go.”

The voice didn't come from behind them. It came from the top of the service stairs.

Dominic stood there.

He hadn't made a sound as he approached. His hands were tucked casually in his suit pockets, but his face was completely devoid of emotion—a blank, terrifying mask of absolute death.

Paulie dropped his hand from Bea’s cardigan as if he had just touched white-hot iron. He stumbled back a step, turning pale as he looked up at his boss’s brother.

“Dominic! Hey, man, I was just... I was just asking the girl for a refill on the scotch—”

“You’re lying,” Dominic said softly.

He descended the three steps slowly, his heavy leather shoes clicking against the hardwood. He didn't look at Paulie; his eyes were fixed on Bea, checking her face, her shoulders, her hands for any sign of harm.

“Are you alright, Beatrice?” Dominic asked, his voice deceptively gentle.

“I’m fine,” she squeaked out, her entire body shaking. “He... he just grabbed my cardigan.”

Dominic nodded once. Then, with blinding speed that defied his massive frame, his right hand shot out from his pocket.

He grabbed Paulie by the throat, slamming the two-hundred-pound lieutenant backward against the wood-paneled wall with enough force to rattle the picture frames hanging five feet away.

Paulie let out a choked gasp, his feet dangling two inches off the floor as Dominic’s fingers dug into his windpipe.

“D-Dominic—” Paulie wheezed, his eyes bulging with sheer terror.

“I gave explicit instructions to my brother before any of you set foot in this house,” Dominic whispered, leaning in until his nose was inches from Paulie’s bleeding ear. “I said no one touches the staff. I said no one strays into the service wing. And most importantly...”

Dominic’s grip tightened until Paulie’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple.

“...no one touches her.”

“Dominic, please!” Bea cried out, stepping forward and reaching out her hand, terrified he was going to snap the man’s neck right in front of her. “Don't! Please!”

Dominic didn't look at her, but at the sound of her frantic plea, his fingers loosened slightly.

He dragged Paulie along the wall and threw him violently toward the service stairs. Paulie crashed down the wooden steps in a heap of limbs and groans, landing hard at the bottom.

“Get up,” Dominic commanded coldly, looking down at the groaning man. “Get out of my house. If I see your face on my property after five minutes, Frankie will be looking for a new lieutenant.”

Paulie didn't hesitate. Scrambling to his feet, bleeding from his lip, he fled down the hallway toward the front doors without looking back.

The service hallway fell dead silent.

Dominic turned slowly to face Bea. The lethal rage in his eyes hadn't entirely faded, his chest rising and falling as his breath came in heavy, controlled measures.

Bea stood against the wall, her hands pressed over her mouth, wide eyes fixed on him. She had seen the monster every man in the city feared. She had seen the cold, violent ruler of the Russo family.

And yet, as Dominic took a step toward her, his posture immediately softening, she didn't run.

“Did he hurt you, Beatrice?” he asked, his hands hovering near her shoulders, terrified to touch her without her permission. “Tell me the truth.”

“No,” she whispered, pulling her hands away from her mouth. She looked up at him, her heart beating a frantic, wild rhythm. “You... you saved me.”

“I will always protect you,” Dominic said, his voice raw, stripped of all corporate polish and mafia coldness. “From Paulie. From my brother. From anyone who dares look at you the wrong way.”

He reached out, his thick, calloused thumb gently wiping a tear from her cheek. The contrast between the violent force he had used ten seconds ago and the feather-light tenderness of his touch on her skin was overwhelming.

Bea leaned into his hand instinctively, closing her eyes as a soft sigh escaped her lips.

Dominic froze, his breath hitching in his throat as he felt her yield to his touch.

“Beatrice,” he growled softly, a warning and a prayer wrapped into one. “If you don't step back right now... I am going to kiss you.”