As one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses, I had cameras covering every corner of my 27-room mansion because eleven caregivers had already disappointed me, and I refused to let a twelfth fail my paralyzed triplet sons. I expected those cameras to expose Angela Bailey’s mistakes, but instead they caught her secretly doing what America’s best specialists had called pointless, and then one of my boys moved his leg on his own.

Two months later, the breakthrough happened.

It was a crisp, clear Saturday afternoon. The conservatory doors were open, letting the cool autumn breeze sweep through the room.

I was sitting in an armchair near the window, working on logistics reports on my tablet, while Angela was working with Phillip on the main therapy mat.

Phillip was sitting upright on the mat, supported by two foam wedges. Angela stood three feet in front of him, holding a brightly colored red rubber ball.

"Come on, Pip," Angela encouraged softly, her voice melodic and bright. "Reach for it. Show your dad."

Phillip’s face was locked in intense concentration. Sweat beaded along his forehead. Tremors ran through his shoulders as his nervous system fought to send signals down his damaged spinal cord.

Slowly, agonizingly, Phillip raised his right arm.

His hand wobbled in the air, his fingers shaking, but he extended his arm forward, inch by inch, until his fingers brushed the surface of the ball.

"Yes!" Angela cheered softly, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around him. "Good boy, Pip! Good boy!"

I stood up from my chair, my tablet slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the rug. I walked over, my heart hammering in my chest, and dropped onto my knees beside them.

Phillip turned his head toward me. His dark eyes focused directly onto my face.

"D... Da..." a tiny, gravelly whisper gasped from his lips.

My breath caught in my throat. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, spilled over my eyelashes and ran down my cheeks.

"Phillip," I choked out, reaching out with trembling hands to gather my eleven-year-old son into my arms, pulling his soft body tight against my chest. "I'm here, buddy. Daddy's here."

Angela sat beside us, tears streaming down her face, a radiant, beautiful smile lighting up her features.

Suddenly, the world shattered.

BOOM!

A massive, ear-splitting explosion rocked the entire mansion. The floor beneath us bucked violently, sending glass shattering from the conservatory roof in a rain of dangerous shards.

The automated emergency sirens screeched into life, their crimson strobe lights flashing wildly against the walls.

"BREACH! BREACH AT THE MAIN GATE!" Frank’s voice screamed through the intercom system over the sound of intense, automatic gunfire. "ALL TEAMS TO THE EAST WING! IT'S MORETTI!"

My mafia instincts instantly erased the emotional warmth of the moment, replacing it with lethal, tactical urgency.

"Get the boys into the panic room!" I roared at Angela, reaching into my shoulder holster and drawing my Kimber .45.

Angela didn't freeze. Her military training kicked in seamlessly. She grabbed Phillip in one arm, hauled Eric onto her hip, and barked at me, "Grab Adam! Move!"

I scooped Adam up into my arms, shielding his head against my chest as we sprinted out of the conservatory into the grand hallway.

The house was a war zone. Smoke was pouring from the shattered front foyer. High-powered rifle fire echoed off the marble walls as my security team traded heavy rounds with a squad of eight heavily armed Moretti mercenaries wearing black tactical gear.

"Down!" I yelled, dropping behind a heavy marble pillar as a burst of automatic fire chipped bullet holes into the plaster above our heads.

Two mercenaries stepped through the smoke at the end of the corridor, raising their rifles directly toward Angela and the boys.

Before I could clear my angle to shoot, Angela acted.

She set Eric down behind the pillar, pulled a concealed Glock 19 from a hidden holster beneath her scrubs—a weapon I hadn't even realized she was carrying—and fired three crisp, professional rounds down the hallway.

Both mercenaries dropped instantly, hit with fatal precision through their throat armor.

"Clear!" Angela shouted, her voice ringing out like an officer on a battlefield.

I stared at her for half a second, a flash of profound respect burning in my chest. "Nice shot, Captain!"

"Move your ass, Andrew!" she yelled back.

We reached the hidden reinforced door of the master panic room at the end of the west wing. I slammed my hand onto the biometric scanner. The heavy steel door clicked open with a loud pneumatic hiss.

"Get them inside!" I ordered, pushing Angela and my three sons into the vault.

"Where are you going?!" Angela demanded, grabbing my lapel.

"Frank is still down in the foyer," I growled, racking the slide of my pistol. "I don't leave my men behind."

Angela looked at me, her eyes fierce, beautiful, and filled with a deep, terrified concern. She reached out, grabbed the back of my neck, pulled me down, and pressed her lips firmly against mine in a hot, fierce kiss that burned straight to my soul.

"Don't you dare die out there, Andrew Grant," she whispered against my mouth. "We have a long way to go with these boys."