The most feared man in New York unknowingly spent an entire flight sitting beside the little girl he had been searching for without even realizing she was his daughter. When she looked at me and asked, **"Have you ever loved someone enough to ruin your own life?"** I thought it was just an innocent question. Then the plane hit violent turbulence, and I found myself holding the hand of the child whose mother had hidden her from me for six long years.

"Down!" I roared.

The silenced gun popped twice—THWIP! THWIP!—the high-velocity rounds tearing through the leather headrest of seat 4A, showering us with synthetic foam.

Passengers screamed. The flight attendant shrieked, scrambling into the lavatory.

I didn't give the gunman a chance to chamber a third round. Despite the plane swaying wildly through the storm, I launched myself forward, tackling the shooter around the waist. We crashed hard into the galley wall, smashing against the metal food carts.

The man was trained, fast, and ruthless. He drove an elbow into my ribs, trying to create distance to bring his weapon up, but I grabbed his wrist, slamming it repeatedly against the sharp steel edge of a beverage cart until his fingers gave way.

The suppressed pistol clattered onto the carpet. I kicked it behind me, grabbed the man by his lapels, and drove my forehead violently into his nose.

CRACK.

Blood spattered across his uniform. The gunman went limp, sinking to the floorboards.

I stood over him, panting, my adrenaline surging like liquid fire. I reached down, ripped open his shirt, and saw it—a dark, crude tattoo of a raven perched on a dagger over his right collarbone.

The mark of Julian Moretti. My uncle. The man who had contested my father's empire six years ago and spent the last half-decade hiding in the European underworld.

He hadn't given up. He had tracked Elena. He had tracked Lila. And he had put a killer on our plane.

I whipped around. Elena was crouching on the floor, holding Lila tightly against her chest, shielding the little girl's eyes. Lila was trembling, but she wasn't screaming. She was staring at me through the gaps in her mother's fingers, her wide gray eyes filled with a mixture of terror and awe.

"Luca..." Elena gasped, blood draining from her lips. "Is he...?"

"He's unconscious," I said coldly. I picked up the fallen pistol, engaged the safety, and tucked it into my waistband beneath my jacket. I stepped over the fallen hitman, grabbed his zip-ties from his tactical pocket, and bound his hands and ankles securely.

I walked back to seat 4A. I dropped to one knee in front of Elena and Lila.

"Who else knows you were on this flight?" I demanded, looking straight into Elena's eyes.

"No one!" Elena wept. "I bought the tickets using cash under the name Walsh! We were moving to London... I thought we were safe!"

"Julian found you," I said, the reality setting in with terrifying clarity. "Which means the moment this plane lands at Heathrow, there will be a welcoming committee waiting at the gate."

Elena squeezed her eyes shut, fresh tears spilling over her lashes. "Oh God... Luca, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry. I thought I was protecting her from your world!"

I reached out, my fingers gently lifting Elena's chin until she was forced to look at me.

"We will deal with your lies later, Elena," I said, my voice dripping with absolute authority. "Right now, my daughter is on this plane. And no one touches my blood."

I turned to Lila. The little girl was looking at my hand—the small scratch on my knuckles from the fight. Without a word, she reached into her yellow cardigan pocket, pulled out a small, bright yellow Band-Aid decorated with cartoon ducks, and held it out to me.

"For your hand," she whispered softly. "So it doesn't hurt."

The feared Don of New York felt something melt inside his chest. I took the Band-Aid, letting her stick it over my cut.

"Thank you, Lila," I said softly. "Now... I need you to do something very brave for me."