The eighteenth nanny fled Dominic Vale’s mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that his four-year-old son was “not right.” A few hours later, that same little boy smashed a bronze statue into my ribs while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase—but when I looked into Noah’s eyes, I didn’t see a violent child. I saw terror.

The three intruders collapsed to the floor before they even realized where the fire was coming from.

I didn't wait for the area to be cleared. I broke away from Dominic’s side and sprinted down the corridor, slamming my weight against the door to Tyler’s room.

Inside, my sixteen-year-old brother was sitting up in bed, his chest heaving, holding an IV pole like a baseball bat, his eyes wide with fear in the dim red emergency light.

Two of Dominic’s guards were standing in front of his bed, weapons raised toward the door.

“Tyler!” I sobbed, throwing my arms around his neck.

“Clara?” Tyler gasped, dropping the IV pole as he hugged me back tightly. “What the hell is going on? The lights went out, and then people started shooting!”

“It’s okay,” I cried, kissing his forehead. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Dominic walked into the room, holstering his weapon, his towering frame instantly bringing an aura of complete control to the chaotic space.

“Get the transport vehicle ready,” Dominic ordered his lead guard. “We are moving the boy to the Lake Forest estate. I’m transforming the west wing into a permanent medical facility. He stays under my roof until the heart transplant is complete.”

Tyler looked past me at the massive, terrifying man standing in the doorway. “Who is that?”