I walked into my mafia boss husband’s penthouse with our baby’s first ultrasound, only to find him kissing his secretary—and eleven days later, he discovered the one secret that could destroy his entire empire.

The Maine coastline was enveloped in a thick, ghostly fog that smelled of wet salt and pine needles.

I stood on the porch of the cedar cabin, holding a steaming mug of peppermint tea. The baby had started giving me morning nausea—a gentle, constant reminder that every second I survived, another heart beat inside me. Two hearts, the doctor had said during my follow-up in Bangor yesterday. *Twins.*

A boy and a girl, the technician had guessed from the scans.

I had cried in the clinic parking lot for an hour, mourning the father they would never know, but fiercely determined to give them a life free from the blood-soaked shadows of the Rossi syndicate.

I checked my watch. 5:30 PM. The sun had already dipped beneath the horizon, plunging the rocky shoreline into twilight.

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Down at the gravel turnabout where the private lane met the state highway, a pair of headlights flickered through the pine trees. It wasn't the mail truck, and it wasn't old Mrs. Gable from the general store. The vehicle was large, black, and moving with predatory slowness, its engine muffled by an aftermarket silencer.

An Escalade. The signature vehicle of New York muscle.

*They found me.*

Panic surged through my veins, but I forced it down, locking it into the cold, calculated box I had built over three years of surviving Lorenzo’s world.

I set the tea down, turned off the porch light, and walked inside.

I didn't grab clothes or toiletries. I went straight to the kitchen island, pulled open the bottom drawer, and reached into the hidden space behind the spice rack. My fingers wrapped around the checkered grip of the Glock 19 I had purchased from the pawnshop in Bangor with forged papers.

I chambered a round with a crisp, practiced *clack*.

Then I walked to the back door, locking the deadbolt, and stepped into the shadowy corner between the living room bookshelf and the stone hearth. From here, I had a clear line of sight to both the front entrance and the side deck.

Outside, gravel crunched underfoot.

Not one man. Three.

"Check the perimeter," a gravelly voice rasped outside the living room window—a voice with a thick Brooklyn accent that definitely did not belong to Lorenzo.

"Salvatore wants the girl alive if possible," another voice replied. "The hard drive is the priority. If she resists, tap her twice in the chest and bag the drive."

My blood ran cold.

*Salvatore Marcone.*

Lorenzo hadn't found me. The Marcone syndicate had tracked me down to retrieve the encryption key. They didn't want to talk; they were here to execute me.

Glass shattered in the back kitchen.

A tall man clad in black tactical gear stepped through the pantry door, raising a suppressed submachine gun.

I didn't scream. I didn't hesitate.

I stepped out from behind the bookshelf, raised the Glock with both hands, and squeezed the trigger twice.

The gun kicked in my palms with a deafening roar. Both hollow-point rounds struck the intruder square in the chest. Kevlar stopped the penetration, but the kinetic force knocked him off his feet, sending him crashing into the kitchen table.