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.

A week passed.

Seven days of snow, silence, and the constant, low hum of security patrols circling the compound.

I fell into a rhythm.

Wake up at 6 a.m. when Mia cried.

Feed her.

Change her.

Play with her on the floor of the nursery, the only room in the house that didn’t feel like a prison.

Eat lunch alone in the kitchen.

Walk the perimeter of the property in the afternoon, two guards trailing 10 feet behind me, no matter how many times I told them to leave me alone.

Feed Mia again.

Put her to bed.

Sit in my room at night, staring at the photo of Mark and the boys I kept in my wallet, wondering if I’d ever feel whole again.

Dominic was a ghost.

I saw him twice a day, at most.

Once in the morning, when he came to the nursery to hold Mia before he went to the west wing.

Once at night, when he came back, his face tight with exhaustion, his suit covered in dust, to check on her before he went to his own room.

We barely spoke.

Sofia was the only one who talked to me.

She taught me how to shoot a 9mm in the basement shooting range, her voice sharp and impatient as she corrected my stance.

She told me stories about Lila, about how she’d been the only person who could make Dominic laugh, about how he’d never been the same after she died.

And she warned me.

Over and over.

"Don’t get close to him," she said one afternoon, as we sat on the porch watching Mia sleep in her stroller. "Dominic doesn’t let people in. Not anymore. Everyone he loves dies. Lila. His dad. His little brother, when they were kids. If you let yourself feel something for him? You’ll just end up another name on his list of ghosts."

"I don’t feel anything for him," I lied.

Sofia snorted.

"Right. And I don’t carry a gun."

The peace broke on the eighth night.

I was in the nursery, rocking Mia to sleep, when the lights went out.

Total, pitch-black darkness.

The house went dead silent.

Then the alarms started.

Shrill, loud, echoing off the stone walls.

Mia woke up screaming.

I grabbed her, holding her tight against my chest, my heart hammering.

A voice blared over the intercom.

"Perimeter breach. West fence. All personnel to positions. Lock down all civilian quarters."

Gunshots.

From outside.

Close.

I fumbled for the door, but it was already locked.

I banged on it with my fist.

"Sofia! Dominic! Let me out!"

More gunshots.

Closer this time.

A man screamed.

I backed away from the door, tripping over the rug.

I fell to my knees, still holding Mia, scrambling into the corner behind the rocking chair.

I remembered what Sofia had shown me two days before.

A hidden panel in the wall, behind the teddy bear shelf.

A panic room.

I crawled over to the shelf, my hands shaking so bad I could barely feel the wood.

I found the latch.

The panel clicked open.

Inside, it was small.

Just enough room for two people.

A blanket.

A bottle of water.

A phone that only called Sofia’s cell.

I crawled inside, pulling Mia in with me.

I closed the panel behind me.

The darkness was absolute.

Mia was still screaming, her face wet with tears.

I rocked her, whispering in her ear, trying to keep my own voice from shaking.

"It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you. Nobody’s going to hurt you."

Outside the panel, I heard boots thudding down the hall.

Voices shouting.

More gunshots.

Then Dominic’s voice, loud and furious, right outside the nursery door.

"Where is she? Where’s Mia?"

"Room’s locked down, boss," a man said. "We can’t get the door open. The power’s out on the east wing locks."

"Break it down."

Wood splintered.

The nursery door crashed open.

Boots ran into the room.

"Clear!"

"She’s not here!"

"Find her! Now!"

I fumbled for the phone in the dark.

I pressed the button.

It rang once.

Twice.

"Emily?" Sofia’s voice, breathless and tight.

"We’re in the panic room," I whispered. "Behind the teddy bear shelf. Mia’s okay. We’re okay."

A second later, the panel clicked open.

Light flooded in.

Dominic stood in the opening, a gun in his hand, his face streaked with dirt and blood.

His eyes locked on me.

On Mia.

He dropped to his knees, the gun clattering to the floor.

He reached for her, his hands shaking so bad he could barely hold her.

"Thank God," he breathed, pressing his face to her hair. "Thank God."

Sofia appeared behind him, her arm bleeding, her face pale.

"They hit the west fence," she said. "Four men. We took down three. One got away. Left this."

She held up a piece of paper.

Crumbled.

Stained with mud.

Written in black marker.

Bring the baby and the wet nurse.

Or more die.

Dominic stood, handing Mia back to me.

His face had changed.

The exhaustion was gone.

The grief was gone.

All that was left was rage.

Cold, black, endless rage.

"Who’s the mole?" he said, his voice so low I could barely hear it.

Sofia’s jaw tightened.

"Jesse. The new night guard. He let them through the gate. We found him in the security booth. Shot in the head. They killed him after he let them in."

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

"They know she’s here," he said. "They know Emily’s here. They won’t stop. Not until they have both of them."

He turned to look at me.

His eyes were hard.

But there was something else there.

Respect.

"You knew where the panic room was," he said.

"Sofia showed me," I said.

"Most people would have frozen. Most people would have hidden under the bed and cried."

I looked at Mia.

She was asleep again, her thumb in her mouth.

"I’m not most people," I said. "I’m a mother. I don’t freeze when my baby is in danger."