The heavy oak door clicked into place, leaving me alone in the sterile silence of Carmine DeLuca’s vast commercial kitchen. I turned the deadbolt just as he instructed, my trembling hands slipping over the cool metal.

Carmine’s weight pressed me hard against the cold floor. He kept one broad hand clamped tightly over the back of my neck, shielding my head from the raining debris and flying wood shards. The acrid smoke from the tear gas canister rolled across the tiles, burning my nostrils and making my eyes water violently.

"Stay down! Don't move!" Carmine barked into my ear, his voice calm despite the violent chaos erupting around us.

"Who is that?!" I shrieked, coughing as the heavy smoke filled my lungs.

"Rocco's brothers," Carmine growled, his jaw set in a hard line. "The Moretti faction. They were waiting outside."

So Rocco hadn't acted alone. He was part of the rival Moretti crime syndicate that had been fighting Carmine for control of the Boise riverfront developments. Rocco hadn't just been a creepy predator in the dark—he had been a Trojan horse inside Carmine’s inner circle.

Carmine reached under his leather belt and pulled a matte-black semi-automatic pistol from a hidden holster. With smooth, practiced efficiency, he racked the slide.

The kitchen door was kicked open with a thunderous bang. Two men in tactical gear and heavy ski masks rushed into the room, their assault rifles raised, sweeping the smoke-filled air.

"DeLuca!" one of them shouted, his voice muffled by the mask. "We know you're in here! Hand over the girl and we'll make your death quick!"

Hand over the girl?

My heart seized. They weren't just here to kill Carmine. They were here for me. But why would a powerful mob faction care about an impoverished maid?

Before I could process the terrifying thought, Carmine snapped into action.

Rising slightly from the floor, he fired three rapid shots through the haze. The bullets hit the first gunman with lethal precision, dropping him instantly to the floor. The second attacker fired a blind spray of bullets toward our position, chewing up the copper pots hanging above the island.

Carmine grabbed my wrist with a iron grip, hauling me to my feet. "Move! Now!"

We crouched low, staying beneath the cloud of rising smoke, and ran toward the service exit that led into the mansion's eastern wing. Bullets whined past my ears, striking the doorframe just inches away. We burst into the grand hallway, the sound of alarms echoing through the vast corridors.

"Where are your bodyguards?" I cried out, my legs shaking so violently I could barely keep up with his long strides.

"Dead, or compromised," Carmine snapped, his eyes scanning every shadow as we moved toward his private study. "The Morettis bought off my perimeter security. This was a synchronized hit."

He pushed me into his oak-paneled library, slammed the heavy iron-reinforced door, and locked three separate deadbolts.

The study was dim, illuminated only by the fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace. Carmine immediately walked to a bookshelf, pulled a thick leather-bound volume, and a section of the wall clicked and slid back, revealing a hidden elevator shaft.

He turned to me, his breathing heavy, his shirt torn at the shoulder, revealing a dark smudge of soot and blood.

"Get in," he ordered, pointing to the lift. "It goes directly to an underground garage beneath the garden. There is an armored SUV parked inside. The keys are in the glovebox."

"What about you?" I asked, my voice cracking. "You're hurt!"

"I have to clear the main house before they find the server room and wipe the surveillance footage," Carmine said coldly, his eyes locking onto mine. "Take the SUV and drive south toward the state line. Don't stop for anyone. Not the police, not emergency services. No one."

"I can't leave you!" I blurted out, tears streaming down my dirt-streaked face. "They'll kill you!"

Carmine took a step closer, gripping my chin again with those firm, calloused fingers. His dark eyes searched my face, a sudden fleeting look of vulnerability passing across his features before reverting back to stone.

"Ivy, they didn't attack tonight just because of Rocco," he said softly, his voice cutting through the distant sound of breaking glass and shouts in the hallway. "They attacked because of who you are."

I blinked, paralyzed by confusion. "What... what are you talking about? I'm just Ivy. I clean houses!"

"Your mother wasn't just a schoolteacher, Ivy," Carmine said, his voice deadly serious. "Her maiden name was Elena Vance. Does that mean anything to you?"

My breath caught in my throat. Elena Vance. That was my mother's real name before she changed it twenty years ago when we moved to Idaho. She had always told me she changed it to escape my father, a deadbeat gambler who abandoned us.

"Your father wasn't a gambler," Carmine revealed, the heavy iron door of the library shuddering under a sudden massive impact from outside. Someone was using a sledgehammer against the lock. "Your father was Victor Vance—the founder of the Vance Syndicate in Chicago. And before he was executed ten years ago, he left a hidden offshore account containing three hundred million dollars."

The door shuddered again. A crack split the thick oak paneling.

"The key to that account isn't a password," Carmine urged, pushing me inside the narrow elevator cab. "It's coded into your bloodline. The Morettis found out you were working here. Rocco was sent to confirm your identity."

My mind spun wildly. My entire life—the poverty, the endless medical bills, the desperate nights spent worrying about rent—was a lie?

"Why didn't you tell me?" I sobbed.

"Because I was trying to keep you safe without dragging you into this war," Carmine said, stepping back as he hit the elevator control button. "Now go!"

The metal doors began to slide shut. Through the narrowing gap, I saw the library door burst open in a cloud of splinters. Three armed men rushed in, raising their weapons at Carmine.

Carmine didn't flinch. He turned toward them, raising his gun, his face an absolute mask of cold rage.