Twenty-three seconds after stepping into my husband's Manhattan penthouse carrying two tiny baby shoes and an ultrasound photo, I caught the most feared mafia boss on the East Coast kissing his secretary while they laughed about how blindly I trusted him. By nightfall, my wedding ring was gone, divorce papers had been filed, and I disappeared without telling him the one secret that would destroy everything he thought he controlled.

Four months later.

Pineridge, Maine was a quiet coastal town where the air smelled of salt pine and fresh rain, far away from the smog and blood of New York City.

I sat on the porch of a small, renovated craftsman cottage overlooking the ocean, a warm mug of chamomile tea resting against my swollen belly. At five months pregnant, my bump was clearly visible beneath my cozy knit sweater.

Changing my name back to Emily Ross and starting over hadn't been easy, but it had saved my sanity. I bought the cottage using the money from my personal savings, opened a small interior design consultancy in town, and built a peaceful, simple life.

No bodyguards. No armored cars. No lies.

My phone chimed on the wooden table. It was an encrypted message from Elena.

He’s losing his mind, Emily. He turned the city upside down looking for you. He fired half his security team and tore down Vanessa's career. He hasn't left the estate in weeks. Please stay hidden.

I closed the text and wiped a stray tear from my cheek. I didn't want Lorenzo to suffer out of malice; I just wanted him out of my life. My baby deserved peace, not a father whose hands were covered in blood and betrayal.

Later that afternoon, I walked into the local grocery store in town. The locals knew me as a quiet, kind widow who had moved from upstate to raise her child in peace.

"Afternoon, Emily!" old Mr. Henderson called out from behind the bakery counter. "Fresh blueberry scones just came out!"

"I'll take two, Mr. Henderson," I smiled, placing my hand over my baby's kick. "Someone inside is very hungry today."

As I stepped out of the bakery onto the quiet main street, a heavy sea fog began rolling in from the harbor. The streetlights flickered on, casting long, eerie shadows across the wet pavement.

I walked toward my car parked near the pier.

Suddenly, my instincts—sharp and honed by years of living with a mafia boss—went on high alert. The quiet hum of the coastal town felt wrong. A heavy black SUV with blacked-out windows was parked at the end of the block, its engine idling silently.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Did he find me?

I accelerated my pace, my hand gripping my purse where I kept a small canister of pepper spray. I reached my sedan, unlocked the door, and quickly slid into the driver's seat, locking the doors immediately.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I watched as the black SUV slowly drove past my car.

The rear window rolled down an inch. Through the heavy tint, I caught a glimpse of a familiar, terrifying figure sitting in the back seat—wearing an expensive suit, a unlit cigar between his fingers, his cold eyes scanning the street.

It wasn't Lorenzo.

It was Marco Moretti—Lorenzo’s most vicious rival from the North Coast syndicate.