The bullet was never meant for her.
It was meant for the skull of a six‑year‑old boy, the heir to the biggest crime syndicate in New York City, United States. But fate has a funny way of interfering.
When the shot rang out, Sophie didn’t think about the physics, the politics, or the fact that the man standing next to the child was Lorenzo Duca, a man who could end a life in this country with a single phone call. She just saw a child in danger.
She moved, and as her blood stained the Manhattan pavement, she had no idea she had just started a war that would set New York on fire and melt the ice around the devil’s heart.
The dinner rush at the Gilded Fork—a glossy, overpriced restaurant in Midtown Manhattan—was a chaotic ballet of clattering porcelain, shouting chefs, and the low hum of expensive conversations. For Sophie Vance, it was just another Tuesday night in the United States, where her feet throbbed inside cheap non‑slip shoes and her rent was three days late.
“Table four needs water, Sophie. Pick up the pace,” the manager, Mr. Henderson, barked, wiping sweat from his receding hairline.
“On it,” Sophie said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion dragging at her eyelids.
She grabbed the silver pitcher and wove through the crowded tables. The restaurant was an upscale trap for tourists and mid‑level stockbrokers, but tonight the atmosphere had shifted. A heavy silence had descended over the VIP section in the back corner.
Sophie approached table twelve, the booth furthest from the windows.
It was occupied by a man who looked like he’d been carved out of granite and dressed in a suit that cost more than everything Sophie had ever owned combined. Lorenzo Duca. Even Sophie, who kept her head down and ignored the gossip columns, knew who he was. The papers called him a logistics magnate. The streets called him the Capo.
He was terrifyingly handsome, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of a stormy sea. But it was the coldness radiating off him that made people lose their appetites.
Tonight, though, the monster was on dad duty.
Sitting across from him were two identical six‑year‑old boys, Mateo and Luca. They were dressed in miniature suits, looking uncomfortable and bored.
“Eat your vegetables,” Lorenzo said. His voice was a low rumble, authoritative but strained. He clearly knew how to run an empire, but he had no idea how to negotiate with a six‑year‑old about broccoli.
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