he first sound that terrified me wasn’t a gunshot. It was laughter. Bright, uncontrollable, childish laughter spilling through the spotless marble kitchen of Dominic Moretti—the most feared man in Boston. And when I saw who was laughing, my stomach dropped. Dominic’s six-year-old son, Leo, stood barefoot in a puddle of soapy water, his expensive shirt soaked through, his dark hair dripping over his forehead.

Two weeks later, the calm was shattered by an unexpected announcement.

"The board of directors and our logistics partners are convening at the estate tonight," Dominic informed me during breakfast. "It will be a formal dinner. Twenty guests."

Mrs. Higgins was fluttering around in a panic, directing caterers, florists, and security personnel who swept the perimeter with bomb-sniffing dogs. Dominic was an influential figure, and hosting such an event meant high stakes.

"Keep Lily in your quarters tonight," Dominic instructed me privately in the hall. His gaze lingered on my face longer than necessary. "There will be dangerous men here tonight. Men who notice everything."

"I understand," I replied. "I'll make sure neither of the children gets in the way."

"Leo will join for the first thirty minutes to greet the guests," Dominic said, a trace of pride in his tone. "He has gained confidence these past weeks. Thanks to you."

The sincerity in his voice made my pulse skip. Over the past month, the boundaries between employer and employee had blurred into long late-night conversations in the kitchen, shared looks across rooms, and an electric intimacy that neither of us dared to name.

By eight o’clock, the mansion was buzzing with life. Men in tuxedos and women draped in diamonds drifted through the grand ballroom, sipping champagne. Dominic was in his element—commanding, lethal, and effortlessly charismatic as he dominated every conversation.

I stayed in the service area, helping the kitchen staff plate the appetizers.

Through the double glass doors, I noticed a man who didn't fit the rest of the crowd. He was tall, with a snake tattoo creeping out from the collar of his shirt, speaking in hushed, aggressive tones to Dominic's head of security near the garden terrace.

A cold prickle of dread ran down my spine.

Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and Mrs. Higgins rushed in, out of breath. "Isabella! Have you seen Leo? He was supposed to go upstairs with his private tutor ten minutes ago, but the tutor says he never arrived!"

My stomach plummeted. "I'll find him."

I slipped out of the kitchen, taking the back servants' stairs toward the private residential wing. The hallway was dark, deserted, and quiet.

"Leo?" I whispered, checking the library and the playroom.

As I approached the study, I heard a scuffle.

The study door was cracked open. Peering inside, my heart stopped.

A man dressed as a catering server was holding a cloth over Leo’s mouth, pinning the struggling six-year-old against the heavy mahogany desk. On the floor lay a flash drive plugged into Dominic’s personal server.