"Eighty-seven minutes into the flight, the infant son of one of New York’s most feared mafia bosses was still screaming. Three bottles, four blankets, and calls to a private doctor had failed, until ten-year-old me walked up to Vincent Moretti, pointed to a tiny black disc hidden beneath the blanket, and whispered: 'Your baby isn’t hungry. He’s afraid—and I know who put that tracking device there because I found the exact same thing under my mother's table the morning she vanished.'" / Chapter 6 / 7

Chapter 6 - The Fire poker and the Family CodeThe masked gunman stepped fully through the shattered window, his boots crunching on broken glass as he swept his assault rifle toward the corner where Maya lay sleeping.

I didn't wait for Vincent.

With a fierce, desperate cry, I scrambled out from behind the mahogany desk and sprinted across the open floorboards directly toward the intruder.

“Leah, no!” Vincent roared, but it was already too late.

The gunman whipped his head around, tracking the sudden movement, his weapon pivoting toward me. But before he could squeeze the trigger, I swung the heavy brass fireplace poker with every ounce of strength in my ten-year-old body, catching him squarely across the shin with a sickening crunch.

He let out a sharp yelp of pain, his knee buckling beneath him.

Before he could recover his balance, I brought the heavy brass iron down a second time, smashing it directly across the stock of his rifle and knocking the weapon spinning out of his hands across the polished floor.

Before the intruder could grab for his sidearm, a deafening crack echoed through the loft.

Vincent’s pistol barked once from across the room. A clean, precise shot hit the intruder’s shoulder, spinning him around and sending him crashing hard against the brick wall before he slumped unconscious to the floor.

Silence descended over the loft once more, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and Maya’s quiet, peaceful breathing from across the room.

Vincent vaulted over the mahogany desk, sprinting across the floor in two massive strides, grabbing me by the shoulders and pulling me back behind cover. His dark eyes were wide with a mixture of profound shock and white-hot fury.

“Are you out of your absolute mind?!” Vincent yelled, shaking me slightly before pulling me into a protective, iron-clad embrace. “You could have been killed in a fraction of a second!”

“She was right there,” I choked out, tears finally breaking free, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. “Nobody touches my sister.”

Vincent stared down at me, the hard, ruthless mafia boss entirely melting away, replaced by a man who suddenly understood the terrifying, unbreakable bond of family protection.

He looked over at his lead guard, who was currently dragging the remaining conscious intruder out toward the loading bay.

“Interrogate him,” Vincent instructed coldly, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “Use whatever methods are necessary. Find out who sent them, and find out where they’re holding Nora Vance.”

The guard nodded grimly and dragged the prisoner out of sight.