The smoke from the burning balcony curtains billowed into the high-ceilinged bedroom, carrying the sharp stench of cordite, singed velvet, and old blood.

The lower corridors of the mansion tasted of sulfur, burnt insulation, and copper.

Roman led the way, two tactical guards forming a V-shape in front of us, while Viktor covered our rear. Roman held a silenced submachine gun in his right hand; his left hand was locked securely around mine. He refused to let go, dragging me through the dim service stairwells as distant explosions rattled the concrete foundation.

My ruined wedding dress was splattered with ash and grease, but I didn't care. The only thing that mattered was reaching the iron door at the end of the cellar hallway.

"Hold," Roman commanded softly, raising his hand.

We crouched behind a row of heavy wine racks at the entrance of the main storage cellar. Through the wooden slats, I saw six men in gray tactical gear setting breaching charges against a massive, vault-style steel door.

Standing behind them was a tall, silver-haired man in a tailored charcoal suit, holding an ivory-handled cane.

Don Corvo.

"Hurry up!" Corvo spat, tapping his cane against the stone floor. "Vance’s security team is tied up on the upper levels. Blow the hinges! If the old woman is inside, the girl is either with her or nearby. I want both of their heads on a platter before the police reach the gates!"

"Why does he want Eleanor dead?" I whispered to Roman, my lips barely touching his ear. "She’s just an old woman!"

"Eleanor was the chief maid at the Valente estate twenty-four years ago," Roman murmured back, his eyes locked on Corvo. "She was the one who pulled you out of the nursery while the house burned. She’s the only witness who can prove Corvo started the fire to eliminate the Valente family."

My breath hitched. The pieces of my life—the strange nightmares of red flames I had had as a child, the way Eleanor always locked three deadbolts on our apartment door, the way she forbade me from ever going near the waterfront—all dissolved into a horrifying picture of truth.

I wasn't an ugly, unwanted orphan raised by a poor seamstress. I was a survivor of a massacre. And Eleanor had sacrificed her entire life to keep me hidden in the shadows.

"On my mark," Roman whispered to his guards. "Viktor, take the breaching crew on the left. I take Corvo."

"Roman, wait!" I grabbed his sleeve. "Don't kill him yet. I want answers!"

Roman glanced at me, his eyes dark with a cold, predatory light. "Answers come after the room is clear, Clara."

"Breaching charges set!" one of Corvo's men shouted.

"Do it!" Corvo ordered.

BOOM!

The charge detonated, sending a shockwave through the cellar. Dust and concrete rained down. The iron vault door groaned, buckling inward, creating a narrow gap.

"Now!" Roman yelled.

Roman vaulted over the wine racks, firing three rapid rounds before his feet hit the floor. Two of Corvo’s men dropped instantly. Viktor and the guards opened fire from the right, cutting down the remaining breaching crew in a hail of lead.

Corvo lunged behind a concrete pillar, drawing a silver pistol from his suit jacket. "Duca! You fool! You’re protecting a snake! If the Council finds out a Valente lives, your family will lose everything!"

"My family already has everything!" Roman roared, advancing behind a heavy wooden crate, his gun spitting fire. "And you brought war into my house on my wedding night!"

I didn't stay behind the wine racks.

While the gunfire echoed off the stone walls, I ducked low, crawling through the dust toward the buckled vault door.

"Clara! Get back!" Roman shouted, dropping a soldier who tried to flank me.

I ignored him. I reached the narrow gap in the vault door and pressed my face against the hot metal. "Mother! Eleanor! Are you inside?!"

From the darkness of the vault, a trembling, frail voice answered. "Clara?! Oh God, Clara! Don't come in! They have gas!"

Before I could react, a heavy hand grabbed my hair from behind, yanked my head back, and slammed a cold gun barrel against my temple.

Corvo had circled around the concrete pillars in the dark.

"Drop your weapons!" Corvo screamed, pressing the barrel deeper into my skin, using me as a human shield. "Drop them, Duca, or I blow her brains over your precious cellar!"

The gunfire stopped abruptly.

The smoke slowly cleared, revealing Roman standing twenty feet away. His suit was torn, his knuckles bloody, his weapon held at shoulder height. Behind him, Viktor held three surviving attackers at gunpoint.

Roman’s eyes met mine. The cold, unyielding Don vanished, replaced by a raw, terrifying desperation.

"Put the gun down, Corvo," Roman said, his voice dropping into a register that made the concrete floor seem to vibrate. "Touch her, and I will tear your heart out with my bare hands."

Corvo laughed, a shrill, manic sound. "You're soft, Roman! Just like your father! You fell in love with a ghost! Look at her! She’s the daughter of Julian Valente! The man who executed your grandfather!"

I froze. My father executed Roman’s grandfather?

Corvo sneered into my ear. "That’s right, little girl! Ask your handsome husband about the feud! The Ducas and the Valentes didn't just fight for land—they bled each other dry for three generations! Roman’s father helped me set the fire that burned your nursery!"

I stared at Roman. "Is... is that true?"

Roman didn't flinch. He didn't look away. "My father was part of the conspiracy, yes. He was a monster who died three years ago. But I am not my father, Clara."