Ivy Richardson POV

I slid into the back of the waiting town car and immediately locked the doors.

My hands were steady, but my chest felt constricted, as if invisible bands were tightening around my ribs.

Seeing Clayton had been like prying open a door to a room I had burned down years ago.

The phantom smell of smoke still lingered in the back of my throat.

I pulled out my phone.

The screen lit up with a priority notification.

Secure Video Link.

I tapped the screen to accept.

The face that filled the display was the only thing that still tethered me to the earth.

Collin Anderson.

He was sitting in his office in New York, the Manhattan skyline blurring behind him. His dark hair was disheveled, a sign he had been running his hands through it in frustration.

His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, scanned my face instantly for bruises.

"Did he touch you?"

No hello.

No pleasantries.

Just the immediate, lethal protectiveness that defined our marriage.

Collin wasn't just a Capo; he was a weapon that Alaric Richardson kept sheathed in velvet, waiting for the command to strike.

"He didn't touch me," I said, my voice softening.

"I saw Clayton. He's exactly as small as I remembered."

Collin's jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone.

"I should be there," he growled.

"I should be the one standing between you and that filth."

I smiled, shifting the phone so he could see I was safe within the leather interior of the car.

"I need to do this part alone, Collin."

I took a steadying breath. "I need to bury Ivy Dillard properly so that Ivy Richardson can live."

A small, joyous noise came from off-screen.

"Leo."

My son climbed into his father's lap, his messy curls bouncing with energy.

"Mama!" he chirped, holding up a toy car. "Daddy says you're fighting dragons."

My heart squeezed painfully.

Leo was four years old, innocent and perfect.

He was the reason I had survived the rebirth. He was the reason I would burn the Dillard legacy to the ground.

"Yes, baby," I said, my voice thick with emotion.

"Mama is fighting the dragons so they can never come near you."

Another face appeared on the screen, looming over Collin's shoulder.

Alaric Richardson.

The Capo dei Capi.

The man who had found me broken in a hospital bed and offered me a choice: die as a victim or live as a predator.

He looked older, his face lined with the hard decisions of a ruler, but his eyes were razor-sharp.

"Do you have the documents for your mother's estate?" Alaric asked.

His voice was pure gravel and authority.

"Yes, Dad," I replied.

I called him Dad because my biological father had lost the right to that title the moment he buried an empty box and washed his hands of me.

"Good," Alaric said.

"Remember, Ivy. Blood is loyalty, not just DNA."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.

"If they disrespect you, they disrespect the Outfit. And we do not tolerate disrespect."

I nodded.

I knew exactly what that meant.

The Richardson army was on standby. One word from me, and Chicago would burn.

I hung up the phone as the car pulled up to the high-end mall.

I needed a distraction. A peace offering to my own frayed nerves.

I wasn't Ivy Dillard anymore.

I was a Richardson.

And Richardsons didn't hide.

Ivy Richardson POV

I was in the children's section, running my hand over a cashmere sweater for Leo, savoring the softness, when the atmosphere in the store suddenly shifted.

The change was subtle-a displacement of air, a heavy silence-but my instincts, sharpened by five years of survival among wolves, screamed a warning.

I wasn't alone.

I turned slowly, expecting a store security guard. instead, I found a ghost from my past.

Dexter.

My brother.

He looked older. Worn down. The arrogance that used to define him had been replaced by a nervous tic in his jaw.

He was wearing a jacket that was two sizes too big for him, posturing like a soldier but looking more like a terrified child playing dress-up.

"Ivy," he said.

He didn't sound happy. He sounded cornered.

"Dexter," I acknowledged, my voice low and steady. I didn't move from my spot. "You look terrible."

"Dad wants to see you," he blurted out.

He stepped closer, flanked by two heavy-set men I didn't recognize. Hired muscle. Cheap muscle. The kind that relied on bulk rather than skill.

"Clayton called him," Dexter continued, his eyes darting around. "He knows you're alive. You need to come with us."

I folded the sweater and placed it back on the shelf with deliberate slowness. I wanted him to see that my hands weren't shaking.

"I don't take orders from Donnell Dillard anymore."

Dexter's gaze flicked nervously to the shoppers nearby.

"Please, Ivy. Don't make a scene. Ainsley is... she's fragile right now. If she finds out you're back without us preparing her, it could break her."

Ainsley.

Always Ainsley.

The sister who wasn't really a sister. The cuckoo bird who had pushed me out of the nest and feasted while I starved.

"You're still protecting her," I said, shaking my head in disbelief. "After everything?"

"She's family," Dexter snapped, parroting the lies our father had fed him for decades. "Unlike you, who vanished."

"I didn't vanish, Dexter."

I took a step toward him, and he flinched.

"I called you that night. I called you three times while I was bleeding out in the snow. You sent me to voicemail."

He paled, the color draining from his face, but he didn't back down.

He reached out and grabbed my elbow.

"We're going. Now."

My muscles coiled. I could have fought him. I could have driven the palm of my hand into his nose, shattered the cartilage, and disappeared into the crowd before his cheap bodyguards could blink.

But that wasn't the plan.

I needed to face them. I needed to walk into the lion's den so I could show them I was no longer the prey. I was the one with the teeth.

"Fine," I said, shaking off his grip with a sharp jerk. "I'll come."

I smoothed my jacket, composing myself.

"But Dexter?"

I leaned in close, letting him see the cold, predatory darkness in my eyes.

"Make sure you don't regret inviting the devil to dinner."

He shoved me toward the exit, toward the black Mercedes waiting at the curb.

He thought he was kidnapping a runaway daughter.

He didn't realize he was transporting a bomb.

Ivy Richardson POV

The Grandeur Hotel was supposed to be neutral territory, or so the Dillards thought.

They were blissfully unaware that Alaric Richardson owned the holding company that held the deed to this very land.

They were walking into a trap I had set before I even touched down in the city.

Dexter marched me through the lobby like a prisoner, his grip tight on my arm. I let him. He didn't know he was escorting a bomb, not a hostage.

My family-my old family-was gathered in the private lounge near the bar.

Donnell Dillard sat in a high-backed chair, looking like a king whose kingdom was crumbling into dust around him.

He looked frail. His skin was papery, his eyes hollow.

Good.

Aunt Carol was there, nursing a martini like it was the only thing keeping her venom diluted.

She was the family mouthpiece, a woman who thrived on gossip and other people's misery.

When she saw me, she dropped her glass.

It shattered on the marble floor, the sound sharp and jarring.

"Well, look who decided to rise from the grave," she sneered, her shock instantly replaced by malice.

"The prodigal daughter. Or should I say, the whore who ran away?"

The room went silent.

Donnell stood up, his face mottling purple with rage.

"Where have you been?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea the shame you brought on this family?"

He slammed a hand on the armrest. "We held a funeral for you! And Ainsley... poor Ainsley cried for weeks."

I stood in the center of the room, unmoved by their performance.

"I'm here for my mother's estate, Donnell. Sign the papers, and I'll leave you to your pathetic little empire."

Aunt Carol stepped forward.

She had always hated my mother. She hated that my mother was kind, and she hated me for looking exactly like her.

"You don't deserve a dime," she spat. "Your mother was a weak fool, and you're just a dramatic little brat who-"

She raised her hand.

It was a reflex. She had slapped me a dozen times when I was a child, and I had always taken it.

She thought this was the same Ivy.

Her palm connected with my cheek.

The sting was sharp, but the silence that followed was deafening.

I didn't hold my cheek.

I didn't cry.

Instead, I slowly reached for a bottle of champagne sitting on the nearest table.

"You shouldn't have done that, Carol," I said, my voice terrifyingly calm.

I gripped the neck of the bottle and swung.

It connected with the table next to her hip, shattering into a thousand diamond shards.

She screamed, jumping back as glass sprayed across the expensive rug.

I stepped over the debris, my voice rising.

"Ivy Dillard is dead! I buried her myself! Touch me again, and you lose the hand."

The lobby doors burst open.

The air in the room changed instantly. It grew heavier, charged with a lethal static.

Three men walked in.

Alaric Richardson took the lead, his presence filling the massive space with suffocating authority.

Arnulfo, his Consigliere, was to his left.

And to his right was Collin.

My husband looked like death incarnate.

He saw the red mark on my cheek. He saw the shattered glass.

He didn't look at me.

He looked at Aunt Carol, and for the first time in her miserable life, she understood what true fear was.

"Who touched my wife?" Collin asked.

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, promising violence.

Donnell collapsed back into his chair.

He recognized Alaric. Everyone in the underworld recognized the Capo dei Capi.

And in that moment, they realized, with dawning horror, that the girl they had slapped was no longer theirs to abuse.

She belonged to the monsters now.