A bleeding stranger held a gun beneath my chin and ordered me to let him and his infant twins die in a Boston alley. He claimed the police had shot him—but by sunrise, I would discover that Daniel wasn’t running from the city’s most powerful men. He was one of them.

By 5:30 AM, the sky over Boston had turned from bruised purple to a sickly, ash-gray.

We weren't at the diner anymore.

Somehow, through sheer adrenaline and a taxi driver who didn't ask questions because I handed him a blood-stained hundred-dollar bill I found in Daniel’s jacket pocket, we had made it across the river to the edges of Beacon Hill.

I dragged Daniel—who had regained consciousness just long enough to direct us before passing out again from blood loss—up the stone steps of a towering, four-story brownstone that looked like it belonged in a gothic novel.

The heavy iron door unlocked automatically with a soft biometric beep when Daniel pressed his bloodied thumb against the glass scanner.

Inside, the house was a masterpiece of cold, brutalist luxury. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, minimalist black furniture, and absolute, deathly silence. There were no family photos, no warm colors—just an expensive cage designed by a man who trusted no one.

"Put... put them on the couch," Daniel groaned, leaning heavily against the entryway wall, leaving a horrific smear of crimson across the white plaster.

I carried the plastic bin into the expansive living room and set the twins down safely on a plush leather sofa. They were finally sleeping, exhausted from the terror of the night.

I turned around, wiping rain and sweat from my forehead, my anger finally boiling over into a blinding rage. I marched right up to Daniel, grabbing him by the uninjured lapel of his ruined designer jacket and shoving him against the wall.

"You lied to me!" I hissed, my voice trembling. "You told me the cops shot you! But those weren't cops out there! Those were private executioners working for a man named Vance!"

Daniel winced, his face deathly pale, a sheen of cold sweat covering his forehead. He didn't fight me off. He just looked down at me with those hard, exhausted blue eyes.

"The police did shoot me, Anna," he rasped, coughing weakly into his hand, staining it red again. "At least... the ones on the payroll did. Commander Vance owns half the precinct. To the city, I'm a rogue asset. To Vance, I'm a traitor."

"And what are you to these babies?" I demanded, gesturing toward the sleeping twins. "Target practice?"

A flicker of raw, protective agony crossed Daniel's face—an expression so deep and desperate it momentarily stripped away the terrifying aura of the dangerous man holding a gun to my chin just hours ago.

"They're my daughters," he whispered. "And if Vance finds this house, we won't live to see noon."

Before I could demand any more answers, a sharp, electronic chime echoed through the brownstone.

Daniel stiffened. He pushed away from the wall, staggering slightly, and limped toward the master console embedded in the living room wall. He punched in a sequence of overrides, bringing up a live security feed of the front security gates.

My blood ran cold.

parked outside the wrought-iron gates of the brownstone. And stepping out of the lead vehicle was a tall, silver-haired man in an immaculate gray overcoat, accompanied by four heavily armed enforcers carrying submachine guns.

"Who's that?" I whispered, staring at the screen.