"He said holding my hand was too dangerous—1 year later, I saw him hold his mistress's hand on live TV."

Through the thin wooden door of my daughter’s nursery, I could hear her soft, even breathing. Every instinct I possessed—forged through seven years of living beside Chicago's most ruthless mafia Don—instantly shifted from fear to total tactical survival.

I slipped the binder into my leather satchel, reached into the nightstand, and pulled out a small, sleek 9mm pistol—a weapon Alessandro had forced me to learn to fire five years ago when his enemies attacked our lake house.

I crept quietly down the carpeted hallway toward the front door, looking through the optical peephole.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor of my apartment building was a broad-shouldered man in a wet leather coat. He wasn't one of Alessandro’s soldiers; the Moretti enforcers always wore bespoke suits and carried themselves with arrogant authority. This man looked lean, sharp, and carried an encrypted satellite tablet in his hand.

"Mrs. Moretti," a calm, low voice spoke through the wood. "Lower the weapon. If Alessandro’s trackers were here, there would be twelve armored SUVs blocking your street. I was sent by someone who wants to keep your daughter safe."

I kept my gun leveled at the door lock. "Who sent you?"

"Your late father's partner, Victor Vance," the man answered softly. "The man whose private security firm Alessandro bought out five years ago. My name is Agent Marcus. We have three minutes before the Moretti Syndicate's regional cyber-unit traces the live broadcast ping from your apartment."

My stomach dropped. When I watched Alessandro's interview on television, my apartment's smart TV had been connected to a local cable box—a box that had just been queried by a Chicago IP address.

I opened the door three inches, keeping the safety off my weapon. "Prove it."

Marcus held up his satellite tablet. Displayed on the screen was a live, encrypted feed of Chicago’s private airfield.

A sleek black Gulfstream jet was currently taxiing onto the runway, its tail bearing the Moretti crest.

"Alessandro left the New York gala forty minutes ago," Marcus revealed, his voice sharp as surgical steel. "Valentina Russo was left on the red carpet with his security team. He realized his interview was accessed by an unauthorized IP in Boston, and he invoked emergency air-space clearance. He will land at Logan Airport in forty-five minutes."

I closed my eyes for two seconds, letting the cold reality settle over my mind.