THE MAID WAS HIDING BRUISES IN A MOB BOSS’S BATHROOM—THEN HE WALKED IN

The next morning, news of Harper’s disappearance reached Precinct 12 in Roxbury.

Inside the grimy, coffee-stained office of the detective bureau, Detective Derek Lawson was throwing chairs.

"What do you mean she’s gone?!" Derek roared, slamming his heavy fist onto his metal desk. Papers scattered across the floor, and two junior officers nearby instantly looked away, knowing better than to interfere when Lawson was in a rage.

Derek was thirty-four, thick-necked, with short cropped blonde hair, cold blue eyes, and a broad frame built from years of powerlifting and street fights. He was wearing his leather holster over a wrinkled dress shirt, his badge gleaming on his belt.

Standing across from him was Officer Miller, a thin cop who ran errands for Derek’s illegal side operations.

"Her apartment in Dorchester is cleaned out," Miller said, swallowing hard. "The neighbor said two guys in a black SUV came by last night around one in the morning, packed her brother's stuff, and took off. No license plates. Tinted windows."

"Who the hell was in the SUV?!" Derek spat, grabbing Miller by his collar and yanked him forward. "She doesn't have family! She doesn't have friends! She’s a nobody! Who took my wife?!"

"She’s not your wife anymore, Derek, you divorced two years ago—"

"She’s mine until I say she isn't!" Derek barked, shoving Miller back against the wall. "Find her! Check the hospitals, check the homeless shelters, check every cheap motel from East Boston to Quincy! If anyone is hiding her, I’ll burn their house down!"

"Derek, settle down," a voice called out from the doorway.

Captain Vance stepped into the bureau. He was a gray-haired veteran cop with a thick mustache and tired, cynical eyes—a man who had been taking payroll cuts from Gabriel Ashford’s organization for over a decade.

"In my office, Lawson. Now," Vance ordered.

Derek gritted his teeth, straightened his leather jacket, and followed the captain into his corner office, slamming the frosted glass door behind them.

"You need to pull your horns in, Derek," Vance said, taking a seat behind his desk and lighting a cigarette. "You're making too much noise over some domestic dispute."

"She took my key, Vance," Derek growled, pacing the floor like a caged pitbull. "She took off with her brat brother. She knows things about my operations in Roxbury. If she goes to Internal Affairs—"

"Internal Affairs doesn't give a damn about a maid’s word over a decorated detective," Vance snapped. "Unless she finds someone with actual muscle to back her up."

"She doesn't know anyone with muscle!"

"Maybe she does," Vance said softly, leaning forward. "My informant on the Seaport docks told me something interesting this morning. Gabriel Ashford’s personal security detail cleared out a basement apartment in Dorchester last night. They brought a young woman and a little boy straight to Beacon Hill."

Derek froze, his blue eyes bulging with disbelief. "Ashford? The mob boss? Why the hell would Gabriel Ashford care about Harper?"

"I don't know," Vance replied, blowing a stream of gray smoke into the air. "Maybe she’s cleaning his house. Maybe she’s sleeping with him. But whatever the reason, she’s inside the Ashford residence now. Which means she is off-limits."

A dark, psychotic sneer twisted Derek’s face. "Off-limits? To me? I’m a detective with the Boston Police Department! Ashford is a criminal enterprise target! I can pull a search warrant on his estate by noon!"

Vance let out a loud, harsh laugh. "A search warrant? On Gabriel Ashford? Are you completely insane, Lawson? Ashford owns three judges on the Superior Court! He owns half the City Council! If you step onto his property without his permission, you won't come back out in a police car—you’ll come back out in a trash bag floating down the Charles River!"

"I don't give a damn about his reputation!" Derek screamed, his rage blinding every shred of common sense. "She is my property! Nobody takes what’s mine!"

"You touch Ashford, and you're on your own," Vance warned, his tone dropping into a cold threat. "The department will not protect you if you start a turf war with the Southie syndicate over a woman."

Derek didn't answer. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the office, his chest heaving with murderous fury.

He walked out of the precinct into the cold autumn rain of Roxbury. He pulled out his burner phone, dialing a number he used only when he needed off-the-books violence.

"Yeah?" a voice answered on the third ring—the thick Italian accent of Frankie Moretti, a capo from the rival Moretti syndicate operating out of East Boston.

"Frankie," Derek said, his voice dripping with venom. "It’s Lawson. You still looking for leverage on Gabriel Ashford?"

"Always," Frankie replied smoothly. "What do you got, cop?"

"Ashford just brought a girl into his Beacon Hill house," Derek grinned, a sick, twisted expression settling over his features. "She’s my ex-wife. She knows his routine, she knows the house layout, and she’s his absolute weak spot. You help me snatch her back, and I’ll hand you the keys to Ashford’s Seaport distribution warehouses."