My mafia boss husband finally admitted why he married me seventeen years ago.

"Get to the back door!" Vincent barked, his voice suddenly stripped of all exhaustion. The adrenaline of survival had taken over.

I grabbed my mother’s hand, pulling her toward the kitchen. Anthony stayed beside his father, his grip tight on the revolver Vincent had given him.

"Dad, you can barely walk," Anthony said, grabbing Vincent’s uninjured arm to support him.

"I can walk well enough to shoot," Vincent grunted, limping toward the rear of the house.

We reached the back door just as the front windows shattered. Tear gas canisters hissed as they rolled across the living room carpet, filling the air with thick, choking white smoke.

"Cover your faces!" I screamed, pulling my sweater up over my nose and mouth.

Vincent kicked the back door open, leading us out into the cold, overgrown alley behind the bungalow. The sharp winter air burned my lungs, but it was better than the toxic gas.

"Over the fence," Vincent pointed to a rusted chain-link fence separating the alley from a dense, wooded ravine.

"I can't climb that," my mother gasped, coughing violently. "Evelyn, leave me. I'll slow you down."

"I am not leaving you!" I yelled.

Anthony didn't hesitate. He hoisted his grandmother up, his teenage strength fueled by pure adrenaline, and practically threw her over the fence. She landed with a heavy thud in the wet leaves on the other side.

I scrambled up and over, tearing my jeans on the sharp wire.

As Vincent started to climb, a tactical flashlight pierced the darkness of the alley.

"There they are!" a voice shouted from the back door.

Vincent spun around, ignoring the agonizing pain in his shoulder, and fired three blind shots down the alley. The flashlight shattered, and a man cursed loudly, dropping to the pavement.

"Go!" Vincent yelled, vaulting over the fence with a heavy, painful groan.

We ran into the woods. The darkness was absolute. Branches whipped against my face, and my lungs screamed for air, but we didn't stop. We followed the slope of the ravine downward, slipping in the mud, moving purely on instinct.

After what felt like miles, we hit the edge of a concrete drainage canal.

Vincent collapsed against the cold concrete wall, sliding down into the mud. He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps. The bandage underneath his shirt was completely soaked through.

"We have to stop," I panted, dropping to my knees beside him. "He's losing too much blood."

"We can't," Vincent wheezed, his eyes fluttering. "They have thermal drones. They'll find us."

Anthony knelt in the mud, pulling off his own jacket to press against his father's wound. "Hold on, Dad. Just hold on."

Vincent looked at Anthony, his hand weakly grabbing his son's wrist.

"I'm sorry, Anthony," Vincent whispered, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "I wanted to build a world where you would never have to hold a gun."

"You did," Anthony choked out. "I'm only holding it now to protect you."

Vincent smiled, a tragic, broken expression. He looked at me. "Evelyn. The SD card."

I pulled the velvet box from my pocket. "I have it."

"There's a public library three miles east of here," Vincent said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Use one of the computers. Upload the files to the Chicago Tribune tip line. Once it's public, Celeste and her corrupt boss won't have a reason to kill you anymore. The target will be off your backs."

"Okay," I nodded frantically. "We'll go together."

Vincent shook his head. "I'm not going."

"Yes, you are!" I yelled, grabbing his face. "You don't get to die on me now, Vincent! Not after seventeen years of lies! You owe me the truth! You owe me a real life!"

"I owe you everything," Vincent smiled sadly. "Which is why I have to stay here."

He pushed my hands away gently and pulled a small, silver object from his pocket.

It was a silver lighter. Engraved with the Moretti family crest.

"They're tracking the blood trail," Vincent said. "If we stay together, we all die. I'll lead them south down the canal. You take Margaret and Anthony east to the library."

"No!" Anthony screamed, grabbing his father's coat. "I won't let you!"

Vincent grabbed Anthony by the shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong.

"You are a good man, Anthony," Vincent said fiercely, staring into his son's crying eyes. "You are not Richard Bennett. You are not Carlo Moretti. You are my son. And you are better than all of us. Now protect your mother."

Vincent stood up, swaying slightly. He clicked the silver lighter open. The small flame illuminated his pale, determined face.

"Go," Vincent ordered.

Before I could stop him, Vincent turned and stumbled south down the canal, using the lighter as a beacon in the darkness.

"Over there!" a voice shouted from the top of the ridge, followed by the terrifying buzz of a drone overhead.

The tactical teams had spotted the flame. They were converging on Vincent.

Anthony grabbed my arm, tears streaming down his face. "Mom, we have to move."

I looked down the dark tunnel, watching the tiny flicker of the lighter fade into the distance.

He was walking to his death. To buy us time.