Eight years ago, my brother Rowan dropped Rohypnol into my champagne so Damien could put his ring on my sister at the engagement gala instead of me. I woke up handcuffed to a bed in a New Mexico motel — Boyd's filthy hands on my throat. I cracked a whiskey bottle across his skull and walked twenty miles barefoot across the desert before sunrise. Now I'm a wreck — desert dust caked on my jeans. Eight feral kids tearing around my legs. A strip of beef jerky between my teeth. So, when eight years after I was thrown out of New York, my brother Rowan finally tracked me down to a dust-blown desert town on the outskirts of Vegas? So funny. "Eva—" Rowan's eyes went red. "You hated kids. You were going to be the first female Underboss in Marchetti history. What the hell happened to you?" I kept chewing. I just chewed on a piece of beef jerky, reached into a pile of mud, and hauled out two filthy toddlers. Then I waved for the rest to head inside. Then Serena stepped in front of me. Tears already brimming, right on cue. "Eva—" Her voice cracked sweet and broken. "It was Rowan who talked Father and Mother into the Rohypnol that night. It was Damien who switched us at the altar." Damien Marchetti just stood there, holding her hand. Calm. Waiting for me to fall apart. But I didn’t. Rowan’s voice turned cold. "Boyd was ugly, sure. But he took Serena in when she was on the streets. He wasn’t all bad. You just had a rough patch. Don’t make this ugly.” Eight years ago, Serena had shown up at the Ashford estate, claiming to be the real daughter. She told everyone I was the fake—that I wouldn’t let her through the door. And my family believed her. These eight years had been my lesson. “Eva, Boyd is dead now. We’re here to take you home.” Serena’s voice was soft, almost kind. “But these little strays are filthy. Low-blood. You can’t bring them. If they've made you suffer this much—let's just get rid of them." My head snapped up. Get rid of them? The child swinging from the rafters was Consigliere DeLuca’s only daughter. The one glaring daggers at them was Don Harlan’s daughter. In the corner, throwing dice like they didn’t have a care in the world, were the Volkov family’s two heirs. These kids weren't strays. They were the future of every empire that mattered between the East River and the Pacific. “You’d be relieved to be rid of them, wouldn’t you, Eva?” Serena smiled, dabbing at her tears. Then her bodyguards raised their guns and formed a ring around us. I pulled the farthest child into my arms and let out a long, quiet breath. This one I couldn’t let get hurt. Don Calder’s only daughter. Fifth‑generation single heir. The whole Calder family were unhinged madmen, and they would burn the world down if anything happened to this little girl. “What? You don’t want them dead?” Damien's voice dropped low. The heir to the Marchetti family radiated cold authority. “Eva Ashford, you want to drag eight little bastards into Marchetti territory?” I frowned and clamped my hand over Harlan’s daughter’s mouth. That girl had the sharpest tongue in the West. “Is Eva embarrassed?” Serena tilted her head, feigning concern. “But Damien doesn’t mind that you’ve been living like a whore. Come back with us. He’s willing to take you in—his woman, at least in name.” Serena said it like she was offering me a crown. Like it wasn't a leash. “I’m not going back.” Three heads snapped toward me at once. Rowan's face darkened. "You give Serena attitude the second you see her? Did you forget every single thing they taught you in the Ashford house?" I'd forgotten more than that. I'd forgotten the snowy night Rowan had walked Serena home with his arm around her, leaving me bleeding in the courtyard. I had forgotten the sound of my engagement ring shattering under Serena’s heel, and the way Damien barely glanced at me when it happened. Eight years was enough time to bury all of it. "Do it, Eva. Don’t tell me you’re never going to marry again because of that punk. You want to be a widow forever? Or maybe you just liked being a whore." Damien's smile was cruel. His eyes dragged over the kids like they were vermin. "They're not mine. You also can't touch them. You can't afford to touch them." Heir to the Marchetti throne or not—didn’t he see that these children weren’t afraid of him?They were doing their own thing. Like he wasn't worth the breath. “You won’t even admit they’re yours?” Damien sneered, drawing his Glock and aiming at the youngest child. “I wouldn’t dare?” My stomach dropped. I lunged to block him—and Rowan's hand cracked across my face hard enough to whip my head sideways. "I thought you were forced to have children. Now I see you spread your legs for him willingly. You disgrace every drop of Ashford blood." The slap echoed through the dusty yard. The children finally looked up. My ears rang. I took a slow breath, my heart sinking into my stomach. "Damien. Look at him. Really look. He's your father's grandson." I'd jerked Marco back fast, but not fast enough. A long, shallow cut had opened up his arm. Blood dripped down into the dust. He buried his face against my chest, white-faced and shaking. I tugged his collar back and bared his collarbone. "Look closely." The Marchetti family crest. A black obsidian serpent, crowned in thorns. Inked in surgical-grade ink across an eight-year-old's skin. The mark only direct blood of Don Salvatore himself was ever permitted to wear. Serena's eyes blew wide as poker chips. But Damien didn't lower the gun. "My father has no grandson." "You can't even recognize the Marchetti crest when it's bleeding right in front of you?" Lucia ripped free of my hand, fury crackling in every inch of her ten-year-old body. "My father is Don Vincent Harlan! Marchetti runs Manhattan, sure—but Harlan owns Chicago, you idiot! You touch us and my dad puts your whole family in the East River by Sunday!" This time, Serena slapped her. Hard. The desert went silent. Even the wind died. In our world, you don't lay a hand on a Don's daughter. You don't even raise your voice at one. It's a declaration of war. Serena lifted her chin. Smiled. "Are these all the little kids you prepared for this performance, Eva?"
I tore a strip from my own robe and pressed it against Marco’s bleeding arm. My hands were steady, but my voice was hard. “Serena, harming Marchetti blood is a death sentence.” Rowan laughed. "Marchetti blood? Eva—your acting's getting sloppy." Serena lifted her chin, smug and satisfied, and looped her arm through Damien’s. I stared at Damien across the space, my gaze heavy. Waiting. He met my eyes for a long moment. Then he shrugged. “Eva, you’ve learned to lie.” His voice was flat, dismissive. “You almost had me.” Serena pouted, faking worry. "If word got back to Don Salvatore that Eva had some random kid pretending to be Marchetti blood, the Ashford family will suffer. She still hates me.” Damien and Rowan frowned. “I’m here. Don’t be afraid.” Damien pulled Serena close and kissed her forehead—slow, deliberate, like he wanted me to see. But Rowan was blind with rage. “Eight years and you still haven’t learned. What do you want? Serena is my real sister. You’re just a fake. What right do you have to compete with her? To resent her?” His words were knives. Every one of them found its mark. A small warm hand wrapped around my freezing fingers. "You had it bad before, didn't you?" Harlan’s daughter was looking up at me, Lucia. My tiny demon. My tiny mercy. I forced a smile down at her, then turned back to Rowan. "Fifteen more minutes. Then you'll know if I'm lying." Just fifteen minutes. That was when the pickup would arrive—the rotating security details from each of the Four Families, here to collect their precious little charges. Same time every evening. Same time I usually kicked off my boots and went home to crash on the couch with the TV on. “How long are you going to stall!” Rowan was shouting now. Serena stepped in, all false sweetness. “The Ashford family can afford eight children. If Eva insists on keeping them alive, then… fine. Fine. Let her keep them." Damien's face flickered—annoyed. But he sighed and looked down at Serena like she'd hung the moon. "Whatever you want, Serena. I'm with you." Rowan nodded. Even he relented. I pulled Marco closer, my knuckles bone-white where I gripped him. "We'll tell people they're orphans," Serena said, voice dripping honey. "But Eva—you're going into the Marchetti family. You can't be tangled up with these kids. Not one inch out of line." She drifted closer slowly. Her eyes glittered with something ugly underneath. "So just let you remember fresh. For every life you save tonight, you take a bullet for them." The kids closed ranks around me before her words even finished. "You three are out of your minds!" "Eva is brilliant! My father says she's smarter than half the Capos in his crew! And you—you Marchettis—treat her like this?! I'm telling my dad the second I get home and she's coming with me! Nobody can kill her!" "My mom is still waiting for Eva to teach her piano! Don't you dare hurt her!" "You wanna play? Just wait fifteen minutes. You’re cowards, threatening us to get to Eva. When my father comes, none of you will dare touch her!" They were brave, but they were children. In a heartbeat, all of them were pinned with Serena’s men. Mouths gagged. Forced down into the dirt. Then the clock ran out. "Miss Eva!" Tires screamed. A black SUV slammed to a stop on the edge of the clearing and Garrick threw himself out, eyes blown wide with fury. "Stand down! Who the hell are you people?!" I looked past his shoulder. No one else. My stomach dropped. "You came alone?" His voice went rough and guarded. "Trouble at the docks. Don Calder rolled out with the rest of the crew to handle it. He's not back yet." Trouble at the docks. Which meant the Volkov detail coming for the twins couldn't get through either. "Stop pretending." Damien's eyes had gone dark. His voice dropped, scraping rough at the edges. "Eva, are those children really so precious to you? You’d risk your life for them?”
The smile froze on Serena’s face. She dug her fingers into Damien’s arm, silently urging him to react. But he didn’t move. His eyes stayed fixed on me, dark and unreadable. She shot me a glare — then her free hand flew to her mouth and she gasped at Garrick. "Boyd?! I thought you were dead. No wonder Eva won’t come back with us." Damien's eyes went bottomless cold suddenly. “Don’t stay here,” I told Garrick, my voice low and urgent. “Go find Don Calder. Or Consigliere DeLuca. Now.” Both names carried weight in all four families. Every made man between New York and Vegas knew them on sight. Damien would recognize them. Garrick hesitated, then turned to leave. But Damien moved faster. He lunged before anyone could react. His gun cracked once—Garrick’s shoulder burst red. Then he slammed an elbow into Garrick’s skull, dropping him to the dirt. “Damien, stop! He’s Calder family!” My chest seized. I screamed it. He didn’t listen. Garrick rolled, dodging the worst of it. But he was alone. Serena's bodyguards swarmed him — and round after round punched into him at point-blank range. Hot blood sprayed across my face. My mouth fell open. "Don't hurt him! He doesn't deserve this!" No one heard me. Or if they did, they didn’t care. They kept firing. Garrick dropped to one knee in the dust, bleeding from a dozen wounds, still trying to hold himself up. One of Serena's men stomped his boot down on the back of Garrick's neck and ground his forehead into the dirt. Damien holstered his gun, disgust curling his lip. "Calder's man? Eva, please. He pulled a weapon on me. That makes him an assassin." Serena laughed, bright and relieved. She stepped closer, her voice honeyed poison. “Eva, maybe you should think about the children. Are you going to save them or not?” "I save." Eight bullets wouldn't kill me. These kids' parents had kept me alive these eight years. I owed them. Four shots. The iron stink of blood hit the air thick enough to taste. Every kid in the clearing flinched. Rowan ripped a Beretta from one of the bodyguards' hands, veins standing out at his temple. "Eva! You're still going to save them?!" Somewhere behind me, a tiny voice choked on a sob. I was soaked in sweat and blood, trembling with every breath. “I’ll save them. And I’m not going back to the Marchetti family.” Rowan exploded. He fired again—four more rounds, each one precise. Non‑lethal. Shoulder. Hip. Thigh. Forearm. He was trained to hurt without killing. He knew exactly where to shoot. "That's not your call. You haven't paid what you owe Serena. You haven't paid what you owe the Ashford name." I swallowed the scream. Planted my palms in the dirt. Slowly — slowly — pushed myself back upright. Serena watched me struggle, her smile growing. “Rowan, look—Eva’s bleeding so much. Do you think she’s pregnant? Coming home with a baby she can’t hide… Oh, this is my fault. I shouldn't have pushed her so hard." I looked down. It was Marco's blood. Pooled on my lap from where I'd been pressing against his arm. Damien's head whipped around. The words ground out between his teeth. "Get rid of it." The bodyguards seized my arms, wrenched them behind me, dragged me back — forcing my stomach exposed. Fists slammed into my abdomen. I doubled over, choking on air. Every organ inside me felt knocked out of place. "Lies — all of it — Miss Eva lives alone, there's no family brand on her skin anywhere—There’s no child!" Garrick spat the words through a mouthful of blood. Still defending me. Serena slowly laid a hand on the neck of the kid closest to her. Her fingers gradually tightened. "Am I?" She caught the panic flaring in Garrick's eyes and let out a soft, mournful sigh. "If they're not Eva's kids… then why do you care so much?"
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