On Christmas Eve in Boston, the Belrose Grand pays double, so Elena Carter brings her little daughter along as she works a shift serving champagne. “Mommy, when can we go home for Christmas?” the girl asks—unaware that a mafia boss is listening, growing troubled by what he hears.

"Dante, look at me." Elena’s voice was steady, though her hands trembled slightly as she stepped closer to him in the dim hallway. "What is that? Don't shut me out. Not now."

Dante looked down at her, his jaw tight. He wanted to lie, to invent some routine business dispute or a disgruntled former associate, but looking into those sharp, intelligent green eyes, he knew he couldn't. She was too smart for comforting falsehoods, and she deserved the brutal truth.

He handed her the note and the photograph.

Elena’s breath hitched in her throat as her eyes scanned the typed words. The cold reality of the world she had married into—a world she had willingly accepted because she loved the man at its center—slapped her across the face with icy precision.

"Julian Vance," Elena whispered, the name tasting like ash on her tongue. She had heard the whispers in the underworld during her days serving champagne at the Belrose Grand—Vance was a name older mobsters spoke of only in hushed tones, a man who viewed human life as mere currency. "He’s targeting Sophie."

"He’s testing me," Dante corrected, his voice dangerously low, vibrating with suppressed violence. He stepped forward, gripping her shoulders gently but firmly. "He thinks because I gave up the throne to build a life with you and Sophie, I’ve forgotten how to wage war. He thinks you’re my weakness."

"Aren't we?" Elena asked, her voice cracking slightly as she looked up at him, a tear spilling over her lashes. "If they’re coming for us to get to you, Dante... maybe we should leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere."

"No," Dante said fiercely, shaking his head. "Running doesn't work with men like Vance. If we run, he hunts us to the ends of the earth. The only way to end this is to cut the head off the snake before it strikes."

"And Sophie?" Elena’s voice rose in panic, her maternal instincts overriding every other thought. "What happens to her while you're out waging a war in the dark streets of Boston?"

Before Dante could answer, a soft voice called out from the living room doorway.

"Mommy? Dante? Why are you guys whispering?"

Both of them froze. Elena quickly hid the photograph behind her back, forcing a bright, trembling smile onto her face as she turned to face the little girl.

"Nothing, sweetheart," Elena said, her voice strained. "Dante just got... some important work mail. We were just talking about it."

Sophie tilted her head, her big eyes studying them with a maturity that broke Elena’s heart. "Is someone being mean to you guys?"

Dante walked over, dropping to one knee in front of the little girl, placing his large hands gently on her shoulders. For Sophie, all the cold rage vanished from his eyes, replaced by an absolute, unshakeable vow.

"Nobody is going to hurt us, Sophie," Dante promised, his voice steady, solemn, and iron-clad. "I give you my word. Go back to your toys. Mommy and I will be right there."

Sophie nodded, satisfied by his certainty, and skipped back toward the Christmas tree.