Three bullets tore into my body because I threw myself between a gunman and the six-year-old heir to New York’s most feared billionaire mafia family.

Dominic slid three glossy surveillance photographs and a set of certified banking transcripts onto the bedspread.

"Look at the shooter's contract, Corinne," Dominic said, pointing his finger at the wire confirmations. "The man who wore the catering jacket was a former private military contractor named Frank Cole. He was paid one million dollars through an offshore shell entity registered in Zurich under the name Apex Maritime Logistics."

"Apex is Julian's holding company," I whispered, my heart hammering against my sutured ribs.

"And who do you think owns forty percent of Apex?" Dominic asked, his amber eyes flashing with dangerous, lethal clarity.

He tapped the second photograph.

It showed Julian Vance sitting at a sidewalk café in Geneva with Marcus Sterling—my father's former chief corporate counsel—and Harold Mercer, Dominic’s own estranged older brother.

The realization hit me like a concussive shockwave.

"Your brother..."

"Harold has been attempting to execute a hostile takeover of the Mercer shipping terminals in New Jersey for eighteen months," Dominic explained, his baritone dropping into a low, rumbling growl. "He knew that if he assassinated Caleb, my grief would fracture my control over the family syndicate. And Julian knew that if he eliminated you, the remaining thirty percent of the Vance deep-water shipping berths would permanently default to Apex under the expired probate statute."

Dominic leaned forward, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, his face inches from mine.

"They thought they could strike at my son and finish off the last of the Vance line in a single evening," Dominic murmured, his thumb reaching out to gently trace the jawline that had survived the storm. "They didn't realize that by targeting both of us, they signed their own death warrants."