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He should have pursued this goal sooner. For years, Leonid had believed he had time, certain of his vitality, convinced he was still a virile man with endless years ahead to sire an heir. But the cancer slowly overwhelming him said otherwise.

Perhaps an heir might already exist, a bastard lost to the world, but Leonid doubted it. He had been diligent in avoiding such accidents. No, his firstborn son had to be with Madelaine. He wanted his child to have her fire, her defiance, tempered by his own ruthless cunning. The boy would be perfect. A dynasty reborn in his image.

Leonid’s gaze swept the desolate bedroom, the sterile wires and IV line dripping chemicals into his veins. Chemotherapy had stolen his strength, leaving him a hollow shell. But Madelaine… Madelaine would make him strong again. He could feel it in his bones. With her, he could still perform, still achieve what fate had denied him. Her body was ripe for his seed. He licked his lips with relish.

But first, she had to be delivered to him.

“Peter!” he barked. The cancer had weakened his once-formidable voice and the sound came more like a rasp than a roar. Still, his lead bodyguard immediately appeared in the doorway.

“Yes, sir?” Peter bowed slightly, his deference easing Leonid’s frustration. At least one man understood his place.

“Ronan Keane is rumored to be dead, so even if the bastard is still alive, he’s no longer effective,” Leonid announced coldly. “Find out where that rumor came from.” He paused, his anger swelling in his frail chest. “I want his daughter. Find Madelaine. Bring her to me.”

Peter didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir. I’ll send a team to Keane’s last known location immediately.”

The decision spent what little energy Leonid had left. He sagged back into the pillows and pressed the morphine button. The familiar flood of warmth dulled his pain, smoothing the edges of his fury.

As sleep claimed him, Leonid smiled faintly. His body might be failing, but his will was still iron. Soon, Madelaine would be in his grasp. Soon, he would plant his legacy.

And nothing, not death, disease, not even betrayal, would stop him.

Chapter 38

Paulo stomped around his office, fury burning through him. Madelaine was trying to unionize strippers? In Bartkowski’s club, of all places?

Then he caught himself. Of course, she was. Of course, she’d thrown herself straight into the middle of someone else’s fight. The women were being cheated, and Madelaine couldn’t stand by while anyone was mistreated. Bartkowski was stealing their tips. That was illegal.

Paulo gave a short, humorless laugh at the word. Illegal. As if that had ever mattered to him. Most of his life was built on knowing how to bend laws, crush them, or slip through their cracks without leaving a mark.

But there was one line he’d never crossed. Innocents.

Never hurt the innocents.

First, because it was bad business. Nothing riled law enforcement faster than harm to civilians. They might look the other way on crimes against criminals, or not investigate too intensely, but police officers fought tooth and nail when innocents were exploited.

But deeper than that, Paulo insisted on living by his own moral code. He couldn’t live with himself if he built his empire on the broken backs of ordinary people just trying to survive. That vow had shaped everything he’d built.

Which meant he couldn’t ignore Bartkowski.

His jaw tightened, but a grudging chuckle slipped out. Madelaine had no idea what kind of bear she’d been poking at. Bartkowski might look like a portly buffoon, but he was merciless when it came to protecting his profits. If he found out she’d stirred his dancers into open rebellion, he’d be beyond livid.

And Paulo couldn’t allow that.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled out his phone. He didn’t waste words on the call. He offered just one sharp reminder of who controlled this city and how quickly Bartkowski could lose everything if he didn’t fix the problem.

Five minutes later, Paulo ended the call, satisfied. Bartkowski would stop stealing from his dancers. One way or another.

“Mick!”

The bodyguard appeared in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame. “What’s up?”

“Send someone to Bartkowski’s place in a few days. I want proof he’s not still skimming tips. Keep checking in over the next year.” Paulo’s tone was clipped as he slid his phone back into his pocket. “The bastard might stop for a while, but he’ll start back up again the second he thinks I’ve forgotten.”

Mick’s chin dipped. “Got it. Anything else?”

“Yeah. The wake.” Paulo rubbed the back of his neck, already shifting gears. “Let’s run security through the plan again. Every angle, every exit, every backup to the backup plan.”

For the next hour, the office filled with terse words, diagrams, and contingencies. Paulo left nothing unchecked. No way in hell was Ronan Keane slipping through his fingers this time. This was it. The endgame.