LET HER MAKE THE TOAST. SHE KNOWS WHAT TO SAY.” MY MAFIA HUSBAND HANDED HIS MISTRESS THE CHAMPAGNE AT OUR FIFTEENTH ANNIVERSARY DINNER—BUT HIS 78-YEAR-OLD MOTHER ASKED

The gunshot was deafening in the small study.

Roman froze. His eyes widened in absolute shock. He looked down at his chest.

A dark red stain began to blossom through his white dress shirt.

He slowly turned around, collapsing to his knees on the Persian carpet.

Elise stood in the hallway, her hands trembling violently around the grip of the smoking pistol.

“You were going to lock me in a cage,” she sobbed, backing away as Roman’s guards yelled from the end of the hall.

Roman fell face-first onto the floor.

I didn't scream. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp instinct for survival.

Elise dropped the gun and ran toward the back exit. The guards chased after her, leaving the hallway briefly empty.

I stepped over my husband's bleeding body. I didn't stop to check his pulse. He had stolen fourteen years of my son's life.

I ran back to the dining room. It was in chaos. The guests were screaming, pulling out their phones, shouting for an ambulance.

Teresa was standing by the broken china, perfectly still.

I grabbed her arm. “Teresa. I know where he is. I’m going to Naples.”

The old woman looked at me, her eyes filled with tears. She reached into her purse and pulled out a heavy stack of cash and a black passport.

“My husband prepared this for you before he died,” Teresa whispered, pressing them into my hands. “He knew this day would come. Go to the airport. Do not look back.”

“Come with me,” I begged.

“I cannot,” Teresa said, straightening her shoulders. “I must stay and hold the family together. If Roman survives, I will stall him. If he dies, I will take control. Go, Nora. Bring my grandson home.”

I kissed her cheek, turned, and ran through the kitchen, slipping out the servant’s entrance into the cold Chicago night.

I flagged down a taxi three blocks away.

“O'Hare International,” I told the driver, handing him a hundred-dollar bill. “Fast.”

In the back of the cab, I pulled out the black passport Teresa had given me.

I opened it.

It wasn't a fake identity for me.

The photo inside was of a woman with dark hair and green eyes. She looked remarkably like me, but it wasn't me.

The name on the passport was Elena Ricci.

I flipped the page, my heart pounding. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from my deceased father-in-law.

Nora, if you are reading this, I am gone. The passport belongs to Roman’s first wife. He told the family she died in a car accident twenty years ago.

My blood ran completely cold.

But she didn't die, Nora. Roman sent her away to the exact same facility he planned to send Elise.