omg 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 helicopter touched down on a private estate nestled deep within the heavily wooded hills of rural Maryland.

The property was a fortress—surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls topped with razor wire, camera towers, and heavily armed guards patrolling the perimeter with Belgian Malinois attack dogs. The main house was a sprawling, historic stone manor house that looked as if it had been built to withstand an artillery siege.

Marco opened the bay door and helped me down. My legs were so numb I nearly collapsed onto the wet grass, but Marco’s massive hand caught my arm, stabilizing me with surprising gentleness.

"Careful, ma'am," the scarred guard said quietly. "The Boss’s private medical staff is already waiting inside. The boy will be safe here."

We were led into a grand foyer featuring high vaulted ceilings, mahogany paneling, and an enormous stone fireplace where a fire roared against the damp chill. A team of private doctors in white coats immediately swarmed Alessandro, escorting him toward an estate clinic built into the east wing.

Before he turned the corner, Alessandro paused and looked back at me. "Marco will show you to the guest suite on the second floor. Eat. Rest. You have twelve hours before the storm hits."

"What storm?" I called out after him.

"The war for Baltimore," Alessandro replied cold-bloodedly before disappearing down the corridor.

Marco led me up a grand winding staircase to a luxurious suite featuring a king-sized bed, a private bath, and a room adjacent to it that had already been hastily prepared with a toddler bed, plush toys, and new clothes in Logan’s size.

"How did you get all this?" I asked, looking around the room in utter disbelief as I laid Logan down on the soft duvet.

"The Boss has contingencies for everything, Mrs. Winters," Marco explained, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. "When he learned about the boy two years ago, he kept tabs on you. He wasn't allowed to contact you—part of his agreement with your husband—but he ensured your landlord never evicted you when you were late on rent."

I spun around, staring at Marco. "The late notices... the landlord always gave me an extra thirty days without charging fee penalties. That was... Alessandro?"

"The Boss pays his debts," Marco said simply. "Get some sleep, ma'am. There are armed guards outside your door and under your windows. Nothing on this earth can hurt you in this house."

He closed the door, leaving me in the quiet elegance of the room.

I sat on the edge of the bed, burying my face in my hands. My whole life for the past two years had been a lie built on top of another lie. David wasn't a tragic victim of a midnight car crash. He was a ghost—a man who had orchestrated his own destruction, leaving me to scrape by in poverty while millions sat in a Swiss bank account.

I couldn't sleep. The silence of the room was heavier than the noise of the city.

At 3:00 a.m., I quietly opened the suite door. The hallway was empty, though I could hear low murmurs of conversation floating up from the study on the ground floor.

I crept down the stairs, keeping my bare feet silent against the plush runner rug.

The door to Alessandro’s private study was slightly ajar. Warm light poured out across the dark wood floor. Inside, Alessandro sat behind a massive mahogany desk, wearing a dark silk robe over his freshly bandaged chest. He was staring at a wall of high-definition monitors displaying live surveillance feeds from across the city.

Beside him stood a man I hadn't seen before—a tall, lean man in a tailored gray suit with silvering hair and razor-sharp features.

"The federal task force has cleared the hospital," the silver-haired man was saying. "They are declaring you dead, Alessandro. The official release to the press goes out at dawn."

"Good," Alessandro said, sipping amber liquid from a crystal tumbler. "Let them think the throne is vacant. It will force the rats to show their faces."

"And the girl?" the man asked, pointing toward a monitor that showed a freeze-frame of my face from the hospital security cameras. "What do we do with David’s wife?"

"She stays under my protection," Alessandro stated flatly.

"She’s a liability!" the man argued, leaning over the desk. "If the FBI or the Syndicate finds out she’s alive and in your custody, they will use her to force David out of hiding! David Winters is a rogue agent now, Alessandro! He’s playing both sides—selling your former supply routes to the highest bidder in D.C.!"

My breath caught in my throat. I pressed my back against the wall outside the study, my heart pounding violently against my ribs.

David is selling supply routes? He’s alive? He’s in D.C.?

Suddenly, the wooden floorboard beneath my foot gave a faint, microscopic creak.