My ex-husband publicly humiliated me at my sister's wedding for being a broke single mom, then a complete stranger stepped up and whispered: "Pretend you’re my wife. Dance with me. Now." Little did I know, he was Giovanni Fierro—Chicago’s most lethal underworld kingpin—and our fake marriage was about to trigger a multi-million-dollar war that put a target on my 5-year-old daughter’s back.

Giovanni walked alone toward the illuminated Buckingham Fountain, his dark wool overcoat tailored flawlessly, his hands resting casually in his pockets. Hidden in the surrounding darkness, Marcus and a squad of elite security operators monitored every shadow with thermal scope rifles and long-range optics.

Standing near the perimeter of the fountain was Don Vincent Valenti—a silver-haired, immaculate man in his sixties, flanked by four towering bodyguards in heavy coats.

"Fierro," Valenti said, his voice smooth as silk, carrying a thick Eastern accent. "You walk like a man who still owns this city."

"I don't own Chicago, Valenti," Giovanni replied calmly, stopping six paces away. "I live here. My family lives here. And I suggest you turn your men around and go back to Manhattan before you make a mistake you won't live to regret."

Valenti laughed softly, a dry, raspy sound. "Don Moretti was weak. He let a woman and a child blindside him. He let you hand his entire network to the federal marshals. But the Valentis do not fall for federal parlor tricks, Giovanni. We know how much wealth you moved into private trusts before the feds swept the accounts."

Valenti stepped closer, his bodyguards shifting their weight under their coats.

"We want thirty percent of your logistics network," Valenti demanded, his tone turning to steel. "We want access to the Great Lakes shipping corridors you cleaned up. In exchange, your sweet wife and your children continue to enjoy their quiet, peaceful life in the suburbs. Refuse... and we burn your world down brick by brick."

Giovanni didn't flinch. He didn't look angry. He simply raised his wrist and checked his gold watch.

"You have five seconds to reconsider," Giovanni said softly.

"Reconsider?" Valenti sneered. "You came here alone, Fierro. You have no mob behind you."

"I don't need a mob," Giovanni said smoothly. "I have the law."

Before Valenti could react, floodlights blared from every surrounding building, blinding the New York syndicate members. Sirens wailed across the park as a fleet of unmarked black SUVs tore onto the grass, surrounding the fountain.

Dozens of armed Federal Agents spilled out, weapons raised.

"FBI! Hands where we can see them! Drop your weapons!"

Valenti’s eyes went wide with shock. "What is this?!"

Giovanni smiled—a slow, cold, predatory curve of his lips. "Did you really think I came to negotiate, Valenti? Two days ago, I handed the Federal Prosecutor a complete paper trail of your syndicate's extortion attempts and laundering networks across the Eastern seaboard. You fell for the same trap Moretti did."

Special Agent Miller stepped out of the lead SUV, holding a federal arrest warrant. "Vincent Valenti, you are under arrest for federal extortion, conspiracy, and racketeering."

As the federal marshals slammed Valenti against the cold stone of the fountain and slapped hand irons onto his wrists, Valenti glared at Giovanni with pure venom.

"You're a rat, Fierro!" Valenti roared. "You destroyed the code!"