The mafia boss’s three-year-old son stopped screaming the instant I gave him warm milk—so his father fired me, then offered me his ring.

We didn't stay for the rest of the gala.

Within five minutes, Ricardo’s head of security, a massive man named Viktor—not to be confused with Romanov—had surrounded us with eight heavily armed bodyguards. We were escorted out through the private service elevator, past the basement kitchens, and directly into the waiting bulletproof Escalade parked in the subterranean garage.

The drive back to the Long Island estate was executed at breakneck speed. Three black sedans flanked our vehicle, their dark windows hiding submachine guns aimed at the passing traffic.

Inside the Escalade, the air was suffocatingly tense.

I sat huddled in the leather seat, wrapped in Ricardo’s heavy wool suit jacket, which still carried the rich, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne and cigars. My body wouldn't stop shaking. Three years of running, three years of hiding, three years of living in fear—and the monster from my past had caught up to me in a crowded room of six hundred people.

Ricardo sat beside me, his laptop open on the console, his phone pressed to his ear.

"I want eyes on Julian Vance twenty-four seven," Ricardo commanded into the phone, his voice flat, precise, and devoid of emotion. "If he leaves the Plaza, I want to know what car he gets into. If he calls Romanov, I want the transcript on my desk in twenty minutes. Do not execute until I give the order."

He ended the call, snapping his phone shut, and turned to look at me.

"Drink this," he said, handing me a small glass of amber scotch from the built-in bar.

"I don't want scotch," I whispered, pulling his jacket tighter around my shoulders.

"Drink it, Maya," he repeated, his tone softening just a fraction. "It will stop the shaking."

I took the glass with trembling hands and swallowed the liquid in one gulp. The harsh, burning heat slid down my throat, spreading through my chest and slowly dulling the razor-sharp edge of my panic.

"Why didn't you kill him right there?" I asked, looking up at him through my eyelashes. "You're the Don of New York. You could have had your men shoot him in the elevator."

Ricardo let out a low, dark breath, closing his laptop. "Because killing Julian Vance in the middle of a high-society gala hosted at the Plaza would start a full-scale war with two syndicates simultaneously. Romanov wants me to make a sloppy, emotional move. He brought Vance to New York specifically to test my patience."

"He used me as bait," I realized, a wave of nausea washing over my stomach.

"He tried to," Ricardo corrected, reaching out to take the empty glass from my hand, setting it aside. He reached out, his long fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Romanov thinks you are just a pretty girl I hired to play a role. He doesn't know that Vance has a history with you. He thinks Vance is just another enforcer."

"What happens when Vance tells Romanov that I'm the key witness to a murder his family committed?" I asked, my voice rising in panic. "They will kill me, Ricardo! They'll break into the house, or they'll ambush us when we leave—"

"Nobody breaks into my house, Maya," Ricardo interrupted, his voice sharp, absolute, and filled with a terrifying confidence that made me believe every word. "And nobody touches what is mine."

The Escalade pulled through the massive iron gates of the estate, sliding to a smooth halt under the stone porte-cochère.

The moment the car stopped, the front door of the mansion flew open. Little Matteo stood on the top step, wearing his blue pajamas, his small face pale with anxiety. Behind him, Elena was trying gently to coax him back inside.

When Matteo saw me step out of the car, wrapped in Ricardo’s jacket, he didn't hesitate. He practically tumbled down the marble steps, running across the cold driveway with bare feet, threw his small arms around my legs, and buried his face into the silk of my green dress.

My heart melted instantly, the terrifying ice of my fear shattering under the warmth of his small embrace. I dropped to my knees on the cold stone, pulling the little boy tight against my chest, burying my face in his soft hair.

"I'm here, Matteo," I whispered, tears filling my eyes as I rocked him. "I'm here, sweetie. I'm safe."

Standing above us on the driveway, surrounded by dark shadows and armed guards, Ricardo looked down at his son clinging to me. His expression was completely unreadable, but his amber eyes burned with a dark, terrifying resolve.

"Elena," Ricardo ordered quietly. "Take Matteo upstairs."

"No!" Matteo suddenly cried out—a tiny, raspy, high-pitched voice that shattered the quiet night air.

Everyone froze.

Elena stopped dead in her tracks. The two bodyguards by the car turned their heads in shock. Ricardo’s breath hitched in his chest.

It was the first word Matteo had spoken in eight months.

Matteo tightened his small hands around my neck, his small face buried against my shoulder. "No... stay... Maya..." he whimpered, his voice scratchy from months of disuse.

Tears spilled freely down my cheeks. I kissed the top of his head, holding him as tight as I could without hurting him. "I'm not going anywhere, Matteo. I promise you. I'm right here."

Ricardo stared at his son, his mouth slightly open, a look of profound, overwhelming emotion flashing across his dark features before he pulled himself back together. He took two steps forward, dropping to one knee beside us on the cold driveway.

He reached out, his massive hand covering both my hand and Matteo’s small back.

"He spoke," Ricardo whispered, his voice trembling slightly—a sound I had never heard from him before.

"He spoke," I agreed softly, looking into Ricardo’s eyes.

For a long, quiet second, the war, the murder, the blood, and the terror vanished. It was just the three of us standing in the cold night air—a broken man, a terrified woman, and a silent child who had finally found his voice.