His Poor Maid Had Nowhere Else to Go—So She Secretly Lived in the Mafia Boss’s Lakehouse

The calendar on the kitchen wall read August 31.

Day 87.

There were only three days left before Wesley’s ninety-day exile came to an end.

The atmosphere around Mirror Lake had transformed completely. The tension that had once separated them was gone, replaced by a deep, unspoken intimacy that filled every corner of the house.

Delaney no longer slept in the boathouse loft. She slept in the rear study, wrapped in Wesley’s arms, waking every morning to the sound of his low, soothing voice whispering softly against her ear.

He had taught her how to handle a small firearm he kept hidden in the floorboards; she had taught him how to laugh again.

Together with Bruno, they walked along the lake trails in the late afternoon, looking like a quiet, happy family that belonged to the mountains rather than the violent streets of Albany.

But peace, in Wesley’s world, was always an illusion.

At 3:15 PM on Thursday, Bruno stood up from the porch, letting out a sharp, anxious bark toward the woods behind Cutters Lane.

Wesley immediately pushed Delaney behind his back, his hand dropping to the small of his back where a heavy black pistol was now holstered.

A sleek grey sedan with blacked-out windows crept slowly around the gravel bend.

It didn't stop at the porch. It stopped near the trees fifty yards away.

The driver’s side window rolled down two inches. A long, silver camera lens extended from the shadow inside, clicking rapidly toward the front of the house where Wesley stood.

“Get inside now, Delaney!” Wesley barked, his voice instantly snapping back into mob boss mode.

Delaney ran into the hallway, pulling Bruno with her.

Wesley stepped off the porch, advancing toward the grey sedan with lethal, terrifying speed.

The driver of the sedan saw him coming, slammed the car into reverse, and tore backward down Cutters Lane, spraying dirt and leaves across the road as it vanished toward the highway.

Wesley stopped at the gravel entrance, his jaw locked in a tight, furious line.

One of Sal Dante’s scouts had found him.

The three-day cushion was gone. Dante knew where he was, and within twelve hours, the full force of the Albany syndicate would be riding down on Mirror Lake Estate to kill Wesley, Clara, and anyone who stood in their way.

Wesley turned back toward the house.

Delaney was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with mounting terror.

“They found us, didn't they?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Wesley walked up the steps, taking her face into his broad hands, kissing her forehead with desperate intensity.

“Listen to me, Delaney,” Wesley said firmly. “I have a contact in Montreal. Dante’s men don't know who you are yet. I want you to take Mrs. Wick’s truck, take Bruno, and drive north across the border right now.”

“No!” Delaney cried out, tears streaming down her cheeks as she grabbed his wrists. “I’m not leaving you, Wesley! I spent four years running from men like them! I won't run away from the man I love!”

“Delaney, if you stay here, you will die!” Wesley roared, his eyes flashing with desperate agony.

“Then we die together!” Delaney shouted back, her hazel eyes blazing with unshakeable resolve. “You told me an immovable mountain doesn't run! You are my mountain, Wesley! I’m staying!”

Wesley stared at her, his heart pounding violently in his chest, realized that he could no more force this extraordinary woman to leave than he could stop the lake from flowing.