She blinked, the facade crumbling completely to reveal the venomous creature lurking beneath. Standing up with a rigid jerk, she walked over to the crystal decanter on the side table and poured herself a glass of brandy. Her hands trembled slightly, but when she turned back to face me, her lips were curled into a cruel, triumphant sneer.

"Enjoying your gilded cage, sister?" Clara mocked, taking a slow sip of the amber liquid. "I hear the great Damien Franco prefers the company of singers to his own fiancée. You may have the name, but you're a queen without a king, a title without power."

I didn't flinch. She wanted to see me bleed, to break my spirit by weaponizing my future husband's public indifference. But she was playing a child's game, entirely blind to the real board we were standing on.

"Power comes in many forms, Clara," I replied, my voice perfectly level, smooth as silk. "I happen to prefer the kind that grows in the dark."

I leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze and letting the silence stretch until it became suffocating. "And unlike you, I don't need to sell family secrets to the Irish to feel important."

The color drained from Clara's face so fast she looked like a corpse. Her hand shook violently, the brandy sloshing over the rim of the glass and dripping onto the Persian rug. She opened her mouth, but her throat seemed to have closed up.

"You're delusional," she finally hissed, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She set the glass down harshly, backing toward the heavy mahogany doors as if the air in my parlor had suddenly turned toxic. "When he tires of you and throws you to the wolves, don't come crying to us."

"When the *Don* finds the *rat* in his walls," I said, my words slicing through the room like a straight razor, "pray he doesn't follow the trail back to you."

Clara practically fled, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.

I remained on the sofa, the faint scent of her fear lingering in the air. My confidence wasn't a bluff. It was forged from the bitter memories of a past life and the meticulous intelligence gathered by my mother's loyal servant, Mrs. Reid. I didn't have the physical ledgers of Clara's collusion with the O'Bannon Boys yet, but the sheer terror in her eyes just confirmed every suspicion. The shadow war was over; we were now fighting in the light.

The following morning, a suffocating tension settled over the Rowland Estate.

I sat at my vanity, staring blankly at my reflection while Sofia, my young maid, brushed my hair. Her hands were trembling so violently that the bristles scraped painfully against my scalp.

"Apologies, Miss Rowland," Sofia whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears as she quickly pulled the brush away. She kept her head bowed, refusing to meet my eyes in the mirror.

She was terrified. I could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders and the frantic way she kept glancing toward the hallway. What I didn't know-what Sofia was too paralyzed by the fear of our own family to tell me-was the rumor currently tearing through the servants' quarters.

Miles away, in the soot-choked labyrinth of the West Loop, my brothers and Clara were executing their most vicious gambit yet. They were parading through the warehouse district, loudly and publicly inspecting the properties still under my name. It was a blatant provocation in the heart of O'Bannon territory. They were practically begging the Irish mob to strike, intending to drag the Franco family name into a bloody turf war and paint me as the treacherous catalyst.

Sofia knew the danger. She knew that a single spark in the West Loop could burn us all alive. But fear of my brothers, and fear of the impending alliance with the *Cosa Nostra*, kept her silent.

"You may go, Sofia," I said quietly, noticing a tear slip down her cheek.

She practically ran from the room. I was left alone in the quiet luxury of my chamber.

Chapter 6 6

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