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 red dot hovered over the white fur of Grace's stuffed rabbit.

My instincts, honed by five years of surviving on the edge of Alexander Hayes’s violent world, kicked in before my brain could process the fear. I dropped flat onto the hardwood floor just as the double-paned glass shattered with a deafening *CRACK*.

The sniper's bullet punched through the wall right where my chest had been seconds before, kicking up plaster dust into the air.

*Crack! Crack!*

Two more rounds shredded the curtains. I crawled forward on my stomach, glass biting into my palms and knees, reaching blindly toward the mantle. I didn't care about my laptop, my passport, or the envelope of emergency cash Lucas Vance had given me.

My fingers wrapped around the smooth, cold porcelain of Grace's urn.

I dragged it beneath my chest, curling my body around it like a human shield.

Suddenly, the front door of the apartment was kicked off its hinges with explosive force.

"Federal security! Move, move, move!"

Three heavily armed men in black tactical gear burst into the living room, their rifles raised toward the shattered window. One of them threw a thick smoke canister toward the balcony to blind the sniper's line of sight, while two others grabbed me under the arms, hauling me to my feet.

"Mrs. Hayes, we're with Lucas Vance! Stay low!"

They threw a Kevlar blanket over my head and dragged me into the hallway. Glass crunched beneath our boots. I clutched the porcelain urn so hard against my ribs that the rim bruised my skin, but I refused to let go.

We rushed down the service stairwell, our boots hammering against the steel steps, emerging into the underground parking garage. An armored Mercedes SUV was waiting with the doors wide open.

Lucas Vance was in the front passenger seat, an automatic pistol unholstered in his lap.

"Get her in! Go!" Lucas barked.

The tires squealed as the driver slammed on the gas, rocketing out of the underground garage into the pouring Toronto rain.

"Who was that?" I panted, wiping blood from a glass cut on my temple. "Alexander? Did he send hitmen after me?"

Lucas turned in his seat, looking at me with grim eyes. "No. Not Alexander. The Moretti family."

My breath caught in my throat.

The Morettis were the oldest, most brutal syndicate in the Midwest. Alexander had spent three years waging a bloody turf war against them, driving their operations underground.

"When Olivia Carter was arrested two hours ago," Lucas explained, "she tried to negotiate a deal with the federal prosecutor. In exchange for immunity, she handed over Alexander’s secret logistics routes—and she told the Morettis that you had walked out on him with the master decryption keys to all of his offshore accounts."

"I don't have his keys!" I shouted. "I walked out with my clothes and my daughter's ashes!"

"It doesn't matter what the truth is," Lucas said grimly. "In the eyes of the Morettis, you are Alexander's only vulnerability. They don't just want to kill you to hurt him. They believe you hold the codes to thirty million dollars in untraceable cartel cryptocurrency. If they take you, Alexander will trade his entire empire to get your body back."

My hands trembled violently as I held Grace's urn. Even in death, even across international borders, Alexander's toxic world refused to let my daughter and me rest.

Meanwhile, at Chicago Midway International Airport, Alexander was boarding a black private jet that did not belong to the Hayes fleet.

He had ignored the federal marshals. He had abandoned his home, his businesses, and his legal counsel. He was dressed in a dark tactical jacket, carrying two forged diplomatic passports and a duffel bag filled with untraceable bearer bonds and weaponry.

Marcus ran up the boarding stairs behind him, out of breath.

"Boss! Our scouts in Canada just reported an active shooting at Mrs. Hayes's residence in Yorkville!"

Alexander froze on the third step. He turned around, his face completely pale, his eyes wide with an animalistic terror that no rival mob boss had ever managed to provoke in him.

"Is she alive?" Alexander demanded, grabbing Marcus by the collar with both hands. "Is Emily alive?!"

"Lucas Vance’s private security pulled her out," Marcus gasped. "The sniper was identified as a contractor for Don Moretti. They're hunting her, Boss. The Morettis have a safehouse network in upstate New York and across the Ontario border. They’re converging on Toronto right now."

Alexander didn't hesitate. He pulled Marcus onto the jet and slammed the cabin door shut.

"Tell the pilots to take off," Alexander ordered, his voice trembling with a deadly, quiet resolve. "If Canadian airspace denies us clearance, tell them we're declaring an inflight emergency. We land in Toronto tonight."

Marcus looked at him, terrified. "Boss... if you go to Canada to fight the Morettis on Vance’s territory, you won't have your army. You won't have the police in your pocket. You might not survive this."

Alexander checked the chamber of his sidearm and looked out the oval window into the stormy sky.