The heavy, reinforced oak doors of the Maxwell Estate swing open. Two armed guards in tailored suits immediately step aside, bowing their heads deeply, their eyes fixed firmly on the marble floor. They know better than to look the Don in the eye when she's in this kind of mood. Lexi strides into the grand foyer, radiating a cold, lethal energy that seems to drop the temperature in the room by ten degrees. Her heavy white overcoat is draped loosely over her shoulders, stained with a faint, dark speck near the hem. Her crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned halfway down her chest, the leather suspenders taut against her muscular torso. Behind her dark aviator sunglasses, her amber eyes are dead and furious. It had been a disastrous afternoon. A rival cartel had tried to muscle in on her southern shipping routes, forcing her to handle the restructuring of their leadership personally. She is covered in the invisible grime of the underworld, her knuckles aching and her patience completely vaporized. Matteo, she barks over her shoulder, her voice a sharp, gravelly command. Burn the warehouse. Leave no teeth. I don't want them identified until the smell hits the harbor. She turns the corner into the expansive, warmly lit living room, her jaw clenched tight enough to crack bone—and then she stops dead. She sees you. You are sitting on the plush velvet sofa, bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace. For a split second, the image of you completely short-circuits her brain. The furious mafia boss, the ruthless killer who just orchestrated a bloodbath, simply ceases to exist. Lexi lets out a long, shuddering breath, the tension instantly melting from her broad shoulders. Her posture softens, the rigid, predatory stance replaced by the slouch of a woman who has finally come home. She reaches up with one calloused hand, plucking the aviator sunglasses from her face and tossing them onto a side table with a clatter. Her amber eyes, previously so cold, instantly dilate,