Serena’s laughter was a sharp, grating sound that cut through the cavernous foyer, mocking the soft, agonized gasps escaping from Ethan.

Serena’s laughter was a sharp, grating sound that cut through the cavernous foyer, mocking the soft, agonized gasps escaping from Ethan. She lifted her designer heel to strike Lily’s chest again, aiming to drive the breath completely out of the young nanny once and for all.

"You're nothing," Serena hissed, leaning down, her manicured nails digging into the tender skin of Lily’s jaw to force her to look up. "A nameless, penniless little bug I hired off the street to wipe drool. You think Victor cares about a brat that isn't even mine? You think he'll take the word of a servant over a Montigue?"

Lily’s vision swam with dark spots, but she forced her fingers to wrap around Serena’s ankle. "He's... a baby," Lily choked out, her voice cracked and bleeding with desperation. "He's... Victor's son..."

"He's a stain on my future," Serena snarled, raising her foot to kick Lily directly in the face. "And so are—"

CLACK.

The heavy, metallic snap of a custom Italian leather heel against the threshold outside cut off Serena’s sentence mid-breath.

The massive, iron-reinforced oak doors of the Blackwood mansion swung open without a whisper. A freezing gust of the November Chicago wind swept into the warm marble foyer, bringing with it the scent of rain, damp pavement, and expensive cigars.

Then came the footsteps.

Slow. Rhythmic. Impossibly heavy.

Each step resonated through the floorboards like the steady ticking of a clock counting down to an execution.

Serena froze. The arrogant, cruel smile vanished from her face so fast it looked as if her features had been struck by lightning. She yanked her foot off Lily’s stomach, her posture snapping straight, her hands flying to smooth down her silk dress.

"V... Victor?" Serena gasped, her voice instantly dropping two octaves into a sweet, trembling purr. "Darling? You're... you're six hours early!"

Victor Blackwood stepped out of the shadow of the entryway into the glaring chandelier light.

He was a towering silhouette of absolute authority. Standing six-foot-four in a tailored dark charcoal three-piece suit, his broad shoulders easily throwing a shadow over the entire foyer. His silver-streaked dark hair was perfectly combed, but his eyes—pale, ice-blue, and completely devoid of human warmth—were locked onto the scene before him.

Behind him, two giant men in black coats—his trusted lieutenants, Dante and Mikhail—stopped dead in their tracks, their hands resting instinctively inside their suits near their leather holsters.

Victor didn't say a word.

His gaze swept down.

First, to the broken crystal vase shattered near the staircase.

Second, to his fourteen-month-old son, Ethan, lying on the cold marble, his right arm twisted grotesquely outward, his small chest trembling with silent, oxygen-starved hitches.

Third, to Lily, bruised, bleeding from her lip, crawling on her knees through the broken glass toward the baby.

"Victor, thank God you're home!" Serena burst out, taking a frantic step toward him, her face twisting into a masterpiece of frantic, tearful relief. "It was awful! I came in to check on Ethan and found this... this incompetent girl dropping him down the marble stairs! She tried to cover it up, Victor! She attacked me when I tried to take him to the doctor!"

Victor didn't look at Serena. He didn't even blink.

He walked past her as if she were made of thin air.

The air around him was suffocating, heavy with the terrifying pressure that had made the Blackwood syndicate the undisputed rulers of the Midwest underworld. When Victor walked, men died. Everyone in Chicago knew it.

He knelt down beside Lily.

Lily flinched instinctively, shielding Ethan with her own body, expecting another blow. But the rough, calloused hand that touched her shoulder was surprisingly gentle, holding her steady.

"Lily," Victor’s voice was a low, velvet baritone—calm, deep, and terrifyingly cold. "What happened to my son?"

"Victor, don't listen to her!" Serena shrieked, rushing forward, her hands reaching out to grab his arm. "She's lying! She's a thief, a careless—"

"Dante," Victor said without looking back.

In a fraction of a second, Dante stepped between Serena and his boss. With one iron arm extended, he pinned the socialite against the marble pillar by her collar, holding her off the floor as if she weighed nothing at all.

"Let go of me! Do you know who my father is?!" Serena screamed, clawing at Dante’s suit sleeves. "Victor, tell your dog to unhand me!"

Victor ignored her entirely. He reached down and delicately touched Ethan’s tiny shoulder. The infant let out a sharp, high-pitched shriek of agony that ripped through the silence of the room.

Victor’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched beneath his scar-lined cheek.

"Look at me, Lily," Victor commanded softly.

Lily raised her eyes. Her vision was blurred with tears, her breath coming in ragged gasps. "She... she was mad because he wouldn't stop crying while she was on the phone," Lily sobbed, her words spilling out in a desperate torrent. "She picked him up by his arm... she pulled him up off the couch and tossed him onto the floor... I tried to catch him, Mr. Blackwood, I swear I tried! But she kicked me... she told me nobody would believe a nanny..."

Victor listened. He didn't interrupt. He studied the deep, bruised heel print stamped onto Lily’s thin white blouse right over her ribs. He saw the smears of blood on her palms from the broken glass she had crawled through to reach his child.

He stood up slowly.

When Victor turned around to face Serena, the air in the foyer seemed to drop ten degrees. The quiet composure was gone, replaced by an aura so lethal that even Mikhail, a hardened killer who had served in two wars, took half a step back.

"Mikhail," Victor commanded softly, pulling a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiping his fingers.

"Sir?"

"Call Dr. Vance. Tell him to bring a full pediatric trauma team to the estate in three minutes. If he takes four, burn his clinic."

"Yes, Boss." Mikhail yanked out his encrypted phone and sprinted up the stairs toward the private medical wing.

Victor walked toward Serena. Dante let go of her neck, and she crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, her expensive dress bunched up around her knees.

"Victor... baby, please," Serena whimpered, backing away on her hands and heels until her spine hit the mahogany base of the grand staircase. "She's lying... she's trying to ruin our wedding! I love Ethan! You know how much I love him!"

Victor stopped six inches from her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"My son cannot speak, Serena," Victor murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. "He cannot tell me who hurt him. But his body tells me everything."