My boss’s six-year-old son pointed at me in a hallway full of dangerous men and announced that I was too beautiful to be alone, so I should become his mommy. Everyone expected Adrian Kane, Manhattan’s most feared crime boss, to shut him down, but instead he asked one quiet question, and his little boy’s answer wiped every trace of color from his face.

Panic is a quiet thing. It doesn't always scream; sometimes it just sits heavy in your chest, suffocating you from the inside out.

I stared at the engraved words on the silver bracelet. She is next, Adrian.

Eleanor wasn't just threatening my job or my proximity to Noah. She was threatening my life.

Adrian crossed the room in three strides. He snatched the velvet box from my hands, reading the inscription. His jaw tightened so hard I thought it might shatter. He didn't say a word, but the lethal fury radiating off his body made the room temperature drop.

“Dad?”

We both jumped. We had been so consumed by the threat that we’d forgotten the six-year-old on the couch.

Noah was standing up, his small face scrunched in confusion. He let go of Gerald the elephant and walked slowly toward his father’s desk. In his little hand, he held a crumpled, torn piece of glossy paper.

“What do you have there, buddy?” Adrian asked, his voice instantly softening as he crouched down to his son's eye level.

“I found it when Grandma came in,” Noah murmured, looking down at his shoes. “She dropped it from her big coat. I stepped on it so the bad men wouldn't see.”

My heart swelled. This tiny, brave boy had instinctively protected us.

Noah held out his hand.

Adrian took the paper, smoothing it out on the glass surface of the desk. I stepped closer, peering over his broad shoulder.

It was a photograph, torn jaggedly down the middle. It showed Eleanor Kane standing in a dimly lit alleyway, handing a thick manila envelope to a tall man in a dark leather jacket.

I stopped breathing.

“Clara?” Adrian asked, his eyes darting to my pale face. “Do you know him?”

I reached out, my trembling fingers tracing the face of the man in the leather jacket. He was older in the photo, harder, his face scarred and weathered. But I knew the shape of his jaw. I knew the familiar crook in his nose from a childhood bicycle accident.

“That’s my brother,” I whispered, the room spinning around me. “That’s David.”

Adrian went rigid. “Your brother has been missing for twelve years.”

“He is,” I choked out, hot tears welling in my eyes. “He ran away after my mother vanished. He said he was going to find out what happened to her.”

“Clara…” Adrian’s voice was dangerously quiet. “When was this photograph taken?”

I looked at the bottom corner of the image. The digital timestamp was bright red.

It was dated three days ago.

My brother wasn't just alive. He was in New York. And he was working for the woman who killed our mother.

“Why would he work for her?” I cried, panic rising in my throat. “She murdered our mother, Adrian! Why would he take money from her?”

Adrian stared at the photo, his mind working in overdrive. “Because Eleanor didn’t tell him she pulled the trigger. She blamed someone else.”

“Who?”

Adrian looked up at me, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying sorrow. “Me.”

Before I could process the words, a sharp, metallic click echoed through the room.

We both turned.

Marcus, Adrian’s second-in-command, was standing inside the office. He had bypassed the security locks entirely. In his left hand, he held his phone. In his right hand, he held a heavy, blood-stained silver rosary.