Thirty-five thousand feet in the air on a private jet, the desperate, fading cries of a starving infant cut through the cabin so sharply every maternal instinct I’d spent three months trying to bury since losing my own twins screamed to life; at the very front sat Dominic Walker, the infamous crime boss and billionaire everyone in America feared, trembling and helpless as he tried again and again to feed his daughter a bottle she refused to take.

The compound was hidden in a valley between two snow-capped mountains.

We drove up a long, winding dirt road, past two separate security gates, each guarded by men with rifles and German shepherds.

The house itself was huge.

Log and stone, three stories high, with a wraparound porch and a dozen chimneys.

But it didn't feel like a home.

It felt like a fortress.

A woman was waiting on the porch when we pulled up.

Late 20s, same dark hair and sharp cheekbones as Dominic, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, a pistol holstered on her hip.

She didn't smile.

She didn't even nod.

She just stared at me like I was a snake that had slithered into her house.

"That’s my sister, Sofia," Dominic said, as we walked up the steps. "She runs security here."

Sofia stepped in front of the door, blocking our path.

Her eyes locked on mine.

"She’s the stranger from the plane?" she said, her voice like gravel.

"She saved Mia’s life," Dominic said.

Sofia’s gaze dropped to my chest, then back to my face.

Her lip curled.

"Or she’s a Moretti plant who got paid to get close to the baby."

My temper flared.

I stepped forward, my bag slipping off my shoulder.

"I was on that plane to go to my sister’s funeral. I didn’t know your brother existed. I didn’t know your baby existed. If I was working for the people who want her dead? I would have let her starve."

Sofia’s eyes narrowed.

For a long second, neither of us moved.

Then she stepped aside.

"Don’t make me regret not shooting you at the gate," she said.

The inside of the house was warm, smelling of pine and wood smoke.

But the warmth didn't reach the corners.

Every window had bars.

Every door had three locks.

Men with guns patrolled the hallways.

Dominic led me up the stairs to the third floor.

"This is your room," he said, pushing open a door.

It was big.

A king-sized bed, a fireplace, a private bathroom.

A crib sat in the corner, made up with pink sheets.

My throat tightened.

"Mia’s room is down the hall," he said. "But if she needs you in the middle of the night—"

"I’m not her nanny," I snapped. "I’m a prisoner here. Don’t pretend I’m anything else."

Dominic’s jaw tightened.

"You’re not a prisoner. You’re a guest. The door isn’t locked. You can walk anywhere in this house you want. But if you step off this property? The Morettis will find you within an hour. And I won’t be there to stop them."

He turned to leave.

"One more thing," he said, pausing in the doorway. "Don’t go into the west wing. That’s where we run our operations. It’s not safe for you."

He closed the door behind him.

I heard the click of his boots fading down the hall.

I dropped my bag on the floor.

I walked to the window.

Outside, the sun had set completely.

The mountains were black shadows against the stars.

No streetlights.

No cars.

No sound but the wind in the trees.

I was a thousand miles from Chicago.

A thousand miles from the graves of my husband and my boys.

I sank onto the bed, pulling my knees to my chest.

And I cried.

I cried for Mark.

I cried for Ethan and Liam, my beautiful twins, who had only been six months old when the car crash took them.

I cried for the empty apartment, for the nursery I’d never be able to go back to, for the life I’d lost before I even got to live it.

I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen shut.

A soft knock on the door pulled me out of it.

I wiped my face with the back of my hand.

"Come in."

It was Sofia.

She held Mia in her arms.

The baby was crying, soft and weak, the same sound she’d made on the plane.

"She won’t take the bottle," Sofia said, her voice stiff. "We tried three different formulas. Three different temperatures. She spits it all out. She won’t stop."

She held the baby out to me.

Reluctant.

Ashamed.

"Please," she said.

I took Mia without a word.

The instant she was in my arms, she nuzzled against my chest, her cries softening.

I sat down in the rocking chair by the crib, unbuttoned my shirt, and let her feed.

Sofia leaned against the wall, watching us.

Her face was still hard, but her eyes were softer now.

"Dominic told me about your family," she said quietly. "Your husband. Your boys. I’m sorry."

I didn't look at her.

I looked at Mia.

Her tiny hand curled around my finger.

"Three months ago," I said. "A drunk driver ran a red light. Hit Mark’s car head-on. He died instantly. The boys died on the way to the hospital."

My voice broke.

"The police said it was an accident. They said the driver was just some kid who’d had too much to drink. But I always wondered. Mark was a port inspector in Chicago. He’d been investigating something big. Something he wouldn't tell me about, because he said it was too dangerous. A week before he died, he told me he was going to take down some very bad people. That we’d be safe soon."

I paused.

"Now I’m starting to think it wasn’t an accident at all."

Sofia pushed off the wall.

She walked over to the window, staring out into the dark.

"The Morettis run half the ports on the East Coast," she said. "They smuggle everything. Drugs. Guns. Kids. If your husband was investigating them? They would have killed him without a second thought. And they would have made it look like an accident."

The room went quiet.

Mia finished feeding, her eyes fluttering shut.

I held her against my chest, listening to her tiny heartbeat.

"Dominic’s wife, Lila?" Sofia said. "She found out about the kids. The trafficking. She was going to turn over all the evidence to the FBI. That’s why they killed her. That’s why they want Mia dead. To break Dominic. To make him watch everyone he loves die, one by one."

She turned to look at me.

"I don’t trust you," she said. "Not yet. But Mia trusts you. And that’s enough for me. For now."

She walked to the door.

"If you need anything," she said. "Anything at all. You call me."

She closed the door.

I sat in the rocking chair for a long time, holding Mia.

Outside, the wind howled.

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.

And I realized I wasn’t just hiding from the Morettis.

I was hiding from the truth.

The truth that my family’s death hadn’t been an accident.

The truth that I’d been running from the same monsters who had killed Mia’s mother.