My husband forgot to pick up our four-year-old daughter because he was busy preparing a birthday surprise for his first love. By the time I reached the hospital, Grace was dead—and when Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss finally understood what his negligence had cost us, even his entire empire was powerless to undo it.

The silence in Alexander’s office was so suffocating that the hum of the fluorescent lights sounded like a screeching drill.

Alexander released his sister's shoulders. Madison slid to the floor, weeping hysterically, her designer coat bunching around her knees.

"She... she told me she just wanted to teach Emily a lesson," Madison stammered between ragged breaths. "Olivia said Emily acted so high and mighty, keeping you away from your old life. She said the driver was only supposed to stage a minor fender bender near the preschool gate to block traffic... so you’d miss the pickup and Emily would look like a failure for not being there."

Alexander’s eyes turned completely black, void of any human warmth. The world seemed to stop spinning.

His daughter hadn't just died from an oversight.

Grace had been murdered as a pawn in a jealous woman's sick game.

"And you knew?" Alexander's voice was an icy rasp.

"No! I swear to God, Alexander, no!" Madison shrieked, crawling backward until her spine hit the mahogany bookcase. "I thought it was just girl drama! I didn't know about the money until the police raided Olivia's penthouse twenty minutes ago! The driver confessed to the feds! He missed the curb because he was intoxicated... he hit Grace on the sidewalk!"

Alexander didn't shout. He didn't smash another glass.

He simply walked over to the antique gun rack behind his desk, unlocked the glass case, and pulled out a matte-black Kimber .45 caliber handgun. He slid the magazine in with a sharp, metallic *click*.

"Marcus," Alexander said into his intercom.

"Yes, Boss?"

"Bring Olivia to the meatpacking district. Warehouse Nine. Right now."

"Boss, the FBI has her building staked out—"

"I didn't ask about the FBI," Alexander whispered. "Bring her to Warehouse Nine, or I will put you in the ground next to her."

Thirty minutes later, the iron door of Warehouse Nine rolled open, letting in the biting Chicago wind.

Olivia was tied to a wooden chair in the center of the concrete floor. Her silk dress was torn at the shoulder, her mascara smeared across her pale, terrified face. Two of Alexander's enforcers stood guard under the flickering yellow bulb.

When Alexander stepped into the light, his shoes clicking rhythmically against the blood-stained concrete, Olivia began to scream through her tears.

"Alexander! Please! It's a setup! Lucas Vance framed me! You know how much I love you—"

Alexander walked up to her, his expression entirely dead. Without uttering a word, he grabbed her by the jaw, forcing her head back until her neck was strained to the breaking point.

"Did she scream?" Alexander asked.

Olivia whimpered, trembling violently. "What... what?"

"My daughter," Alexander murmured, his thumb digging into her cheekbone until bone bruised flesh. "Grace was four years old. When that car hit her, did she scream for me? Did she call out for her daddy?"

"Alexander, please, it was an accident! I swear on my mother's grave! The driver was supposed to hit a fire hydrant! Just cause a traffic jam!"

Alexander stared into her eyes for three long seconds. The woman he had put on a pedestal for ten years—the woman whose ghost had poisoned his vows to Emily—was nothing more than a pathetic, murderous parasite.

"You took my daughter from me," Alexander whispered. "And you made me kill my wife's soul."

He stepped back and raised the Kimber .45, pointing it directly between her eyes.

"Alexander, no!" Olivia shrieked, wetting herself in pure terror. "You loved me! You promised you would always protect me!"

"That promise died with my baby," Alexander said.

He pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed like thunder inside the hollow warehouse.

Olivia screamed and slumped, but she wasn't dead. The bullet had torn through the wooden chair an inch from her left ear, deafening her and splintering the oak into razor-sharp shards.

Alexander lowered the gun, his eyes hollow.

"Death is too quick for you, Olivia," he said softly. "Death is mercy. And you don't deserve mercy. Neither do I."

He turned to Marcus.

"Hand her over to the federal agents waiting outside. Give them the banking records, the text logs, and the surveillance footage from the floral shop. Ensure she is charged with premeditated murder of a child in federal jurisdiction. Let her rot in a maximum-security cell for sixty years."

Alexander wiped the gun clean and walked out into the cold night rain.

He pulled out his private burner phone and dialed a number he knew by heart.

In Toronto, it was past midnight. I had just tucked Grace’s stuffed rabbit into bed beside me in the quiet apartment when my phone vibrated on the nightstand.

A Chicago number.

I answered it, my voice colder than the northern wind. "What do you want, Alexander?"

"Emily," he choked out. The fierce, untouchable mob boss was weeping openly on the other end of the line. "It was Olivia. She paid the driver. She planned it all. I didn't know... God help me, Emily, I didn't know."

I closed my eyes, a single tear cutting down my cheek. The truth felt like a blade twisting into an open wound, but it didn't change reality.

"It doesn't matter who paid the driver, Alexander," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Emily, please, let me come to you! I'll give you everything! I destroyed her! I turned her over to the feds! I'll burn Chicago to the ground for you!"

"You were at her party, Alexander," I said softly. "You blew up balloons while our baby died alone in the street. You killed her just as much as Olivia did."

"Emily—"

"Goodbye, Alexander."

I hung up, popped the SIM card out of the phone, snapped it in half, and dropped it into the trash can.