Ten days. That was all the doctor believed my six-year-old twins had left, and for the first time in my life, all the money, guns, fear, and power I had built as one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses meant absolutely nothing. By three that afternoon, while death waited inside my mansion, a penniless woman stood outside my gates refusing to leave, and I had no idea she was about to change everything.

The grand hallway of the second floor was a battleground of smoke, muzzle flashes, and blood.

The Blackwood mercenaries were elite—former foreign operatives equipped with night-vision goggles and tactical body armor. But they were fighting on my ground, inside my home, against a father who had just watched his dying children come back to life.

I moved through the smoke like a ghost.

BANG! BANG!

Two rounds caught the lead mercenary in the throat, dropping him instantly onto the Persian rug.

I rolled behind a heavy marble pillar as a hail of submachine-gun fire tore through the plaster behind me. I dropped my empty magazine, slapped a fresh one into the grip, and stepped out from cover, firing four rapid, surgical shots into the chests of two more shooters advancing down the hallway.

"CLEAR THE LEFT!" a voice yelled in a heavy Eastern European accent.

"He's alone! Flank him!"

I pulled a tactical grenade from my vest, pulled the pin with my teeth, and tossed it down the marble staircase.

BOOM!

The shockwave blew out the remaining glass fixtures, sending wood splinters and debris flying through the air. Screams echoed from the foyer as three more mercenaries tumbled down the stairs.

Within seven minutes, the gunfire inside the house died down into an eerie, suffocating silence.

Smoke drifted lazy through the grand foyer. Ten Blackwood mercenaries lay dead on the marble floors, their weapons scattered around them. Outside, the sound of squealing tires and distant sirens signaled that the remaining tactical team was retreating into the night.

Prescott stepped out of the private service elevator, his suit covered in drywall dust, holding a smoking assault rifle.

"The house is secure, Boss," Prescott wheezed, wiping blood from his cheek. "Exterior guards wiped out their getaway vehicles. They're dropping like flies."

I lowered my pistol, my chest heaving, sweat dripping from my jaw. "The kids?"

"Safe in the panic room," Prescott replied. "Nora's holding them. She refused to let go of Blythe until I came back up to get you."

I re-holstered my weapon, smoothing down my dark jacket, and walked toward the elevator.

The sub-basement panic room was a reinforced steel vault fitted with independent oxygen supplies, medical beds, and security monitors.

When the heavy steel door slid open, Nora was sitting on the edge of a cot. Jonah was asleep in her lap, his head resting against her shoulder, while Blythe was curled tightly against her side, her tiny hand tucked into Nora's sweater pocket.

Nora looked up. When she saw me standing in the doorway—uninjured, towering, and covered in gunsmoke—a massive wave of relief washed over her face.

"Lawson," she breathed.

I stepped into the room, walking over to the cot, and knelt down in front of her.

Jonah stirred, opening his small brown eyes. He looked from me to Nora, then let out a small, tired yawn.

"Dad?" Jonah whispered weakly. "Auntie Nora said you were driving the bad men away."

I froze. Auntie Nora.

I looked up at Nora. Her face flushed pink with embarrassment, but her eyes held a soft, profound warmth that made my chest ache.

"Yeah, buddy," I murmured, reaching up to gently pat Jonah's head. "The bad men are gone. They're never coming back."

Blythe looked up at me, her eyes bright and clear for the first time in months. "Daddy... Auntie Nora smells like Mommy's lavender lotion."

Nora bit her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes once more. "Genevieve gave me that lotion for my sixteenth birthday, Bly. I've used it every day since."

I looked at the three of them—my children, who had been ten days from the grave, sitting safely in the arms of the woman who shared their mother's blood.

The dark fortress I had built to keep the world out was no longer a tomb.

"Prescott," I said softly, standing up.

"Sir?"

"Call the captains. Mobilize every crew we have in the Midwest. I want Victor Blackwood's locations, his offshore bank accounts, and his hideouts by midnight."