“PUT THAT PEN DOWN! HE DOESN’T EVEN REMEMBER HIS OWN SON!” THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 48-YEAR-OLD NURSE FOR HELPING HIS ELDERLY FATHER SIGN THE FAMILY GUESTBOOK—BUT WHEN THE OLD MAN SCRATCHED THREE WORDS ACROSS THE PAGE, DOMINIC ROMANO STOPPED THE MUSIC. “CELESTE… WHAT IS IN THE BLUE BOTTLE?”

The joy of the morning vanished instantly, replaced by a freezing dread.

Dominic stared at the burner phone in his hand. His jaw locked tightly.

“Who is this?” Dominic demanded, his voice deceptively calm.

A low chuckle vibrated through the speaker.

“Ah. Dominic Romano. You survived the D’Amato attack. Impressive. But Arthur promised us the shipping ports if we provided the distraction. Since Arthur seems to be indisposed, we will take the ports ourselves. Consider Chicago under new management.”

The line clicked dead.

Dominic slowly lowered the phone. The morning sun suddenly felt cold.

“The Bratva,” Julian said, stepping onto the terrace, his face pale. He had heard the call. “Arthur didn’t just ally with Celeste’s family. He sold our territory to the Russians to guarantee we wouldn’t survive.”

“The D’Amatos were just the first wave,” Dominic murmured, looking out toward the city skyline. “They were the blunt instrument. The Russians are the executioners.”

I grabbed Dominic’s good arm. “We beat them once tonight. We can do it again.”

“No,” Dominic said sharply, turning to me. “The Bratva doesn’t fight like the Italians, Grace. They don’t care about honor or families. They will burn down the hospitals, the schools, anywhere you go. I have to get you out of the city.”

Panic flared in my chest. “I’m not leaving you!”

“You have to,” Dominic insisted, his eyes dark with fear for me. “I’ll send you, Lily, and my father to the safehouse in Montana. It’s off the grid.”

“Dominic, please—”

“Grace, enough!” He rarely raised his voice at me, and the harshness of it shocked me into silence. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a faded, crumpled piece of paper.

He pressed it into my hand.

It was a train ticket. Dated twelve years ago.

“Do you know what this is?” Dominic asked, his voice shaking slightly. “It’s the ticket my brother Vincent bought for his fiancée. He tried to send her away to protect her before the dock explosion. She refused to get on the train. She stayed. And she died with him.”

Julian looked away, his jaw tight. It was a truth about his parents he clearly carried heavily.

“I am not making my brother’s mistake,” Dominic said, pulling me into a fierce, desperate hug. “I cannot fight the Russians if I am constantly terrified they will put a bullet in your head to get to me. You leave in one hour.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, tears hot against his ruined shirt.

I knew he was right. My presence here was a liability. He would sacrifice his empire to save me, and the Russians knew it.

Sixty minutes later, an armored SUV sat idling at the back of the estate.

Salvatore was already in the back seat, holding a small overnight bag. Lily stood by the door, looking terrified again.

“Mom, come on,” Lily urged, holding her hand out to me.

I stood on the gravel driveway, looking at Dominic. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his weapon holstered, surrounded by the few loyal capos who had arrived after the D’Amato attack.

He walked over to me, ignoring his men.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, heavy string of pearls.

“These belonged to my grandmother,” Dominic said softly, wrapping them twice around my neck. “They are the matriarch’s pearls. Keep them safe. Keep our family safe.”

He kissed me deeply, tasting of coffee and ash.

“I’ll come for you when it’s done,” he promised.

I climbed into the SUV. The heavy doors locked with a metallic thud.

As the car pulled away, driving down the winding private road away from the ruined estate, I looked back through the tinted glass. Dominic was already turning away, walking back into the warzone.

I touched the pearls at my neck. The emeralds at my wrist. The St. Jude medal on my chest.

I wasn’t a nurse running from danger. I was a Romano now.

“Grace,” Salvatore said quietly from the back seat.

I looked back. The old man was holding Arthur’s burner phone. He had swiped it from the terrace table before we left.

“The phone received a text message,” Salvatore rasped.

“What does it say?” I asked, my blood running cold.

Salvatore held up the screen.

It read: The decoy attack is complete. We are hitting the transport on Highway 9.

My heart stopped.

The D’Amato attack wasn’t the main event. It was a distraction to get Dominic to send us away.