Minutes later, I found the three-year-old son I had hidden in a hospital supply closet curled on the chest of a mafia boss who had stopped breathing. Suddenly, the heart monitor began beeping again. When the man opened his eyes, he ignored the doctors and armed guards, stared directly at me, and asked, “Do you know who your husband really worked for?”

The speedboat carved a violent arc through the dark water, heading straight back toward the burning docks of Locust Point.

When I cut the engine and glided silently against the rotted pilings of Pier 4, the warehouse looked like a war zone. Two walls had partially collapsed in a fiery inferno, sirens wailing in the distance as police and emergency vehicles finally began to converge on the perimeter.

I left Logan sleeping soundly in the secure cabin, locking the hatch from the outside with a silent prayer, and crept back into the shadows of the warehouse with a heavy iron pipe I had found on the dock.

The air inside was thick with smoke, ash, and the copper stench of spilled blood.

“Alejandro?!” I called out, my voice echoing through the charred ruins. “David? Can you hear me?!”

“Quiet, you fool,” a voice hissed from behind a fallen concrete pillar.

I spun around, raising the iron pipe, but lowered it instantly with a gasp.

It was Viktor. He was slumped against the concrete, clutching a massive wound in his side, blood pooling darkly across his tactical vest. A few feet away, Alessandro was down on one knee, his overcoat shredded, holding his side with one hand and a smoking pistol in the other.

In the center of the open floor stood Marcus Vance, holding a bloodied combat knife, a manic, triumphant grin plastered across his face.

“Well, well, well,” Marcus sneered, wiping sweat and soot from his forehead. “The devoted wife returns. How romantic. Too bad your little guardian angel is out of bullets.”

Alessandro clicked his empty Glock once, let out a low, gravelly laugh, and slowly stood up, refusing to show weakness even as his legs buckled slightly.

“You talk too much, Marcus,” Alessandro rasped.

Marcus raised the knife, stepping forward for the kill shot.

“Drop the blade, Marcus.”

The voice boomed from the shadows of the catwalk above.

Marcus froze. He slowly turned his head upward.

Standing on the rusted metal railing twenty feet above us, silhouetted against the roaring flames of the burning roof, was a man in dark tactical gear, holding a high-powered sniper rifle aimed squarely between Marcus’s eyes.

Even with the tactical mask covering the lower half of his face, I knew those eyes. I knew the posture.

“David,” I whispered, my breath catching in my throat.

David didn't look down at me. His gaze was locked entirely on Marcus Vance.

“You’re supposed to be dead, Winters,” Marcus snarled, his hand shaking slightly as he gripped the knife.

“I was,” David said, his voice cold, steady, and devoid of all mercy. “And now I’m back to collect.”

Before Marcus could lunge, a deafening crack echoed through the warehouse.

The bullet didn't hit Marcus. It struck the concrete floor a fraction of an inch from his right boot, sending a shower of sharp sparks flying into his face.

“Next one goes through your skull,” David said, stepping off the catwalk, rappelling down a thick nylon rope with military precision, and landing heavily on the concrete floor directly between Marcus and me.

David stood tall, his broad shoulders squared, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective fire I had never seen before. He slowly pulled down his tactical mask.

The scar running along his jawline was new—a souvenir from a life I had never known he lived. But when he turned his head and looked at me, his eyes filled with a lifetime of pent-up tears and desperate love.

“You shouldn't have come back, Catherine,” David whispered, his voice cracking.