The heavy oak doors of the Moretti mansion swung wide open, letting in a sharp gust of Chicago wind. But the cold air outside was nothing compared to the chill that froze the blood in my veins.

Footsteps echoed through the grand foyer—steady, measured, and arrogant.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

I knew those footsteps. I had heard them in my nightmares every single night for the past three years.

Standing in the doorway was Julian Vance.

My ex-husband. A man who wore a multi-million-dollar designer suit on the outside, but carried the soul of a monster underneath. The public knew him as a rising political powerhouse and a billionaire philanthropist. I knew him as the architect of my private hell. The man who had put every single one of those jagged scars onto my body.

Julian paused just inside the threshold, his handsome face curled into that familiar, terrifyingly charming smile. He looked completely out of place in a mafia fortress, yet entirely unfazed.

"Vincent," Julian greeted smoothly, his eyes sweeping across the grand hall before landing directly on me. A spark of cruel recognition flashed in his gaze. "I trust I’m not interrupting anything important? I came to discuss our municipal contracts, but it seems your domestic staff needs a little... retraining."

Vincent Moretti did not let go of my wrist.

In fact, his grip tightened just a fraction. The warmth of his hand vanished, replaced by a lethal stillness. The two bodyguards behind him shifted instantly, their hands sliding beneath their suit jackets, hovering near the concealed weapons at their waists. The air in the room grew so dense it was impossible to breathe.

"Julian," Vincent said, his voice dropping into a register so low and smooth it sent shractions down my spine. "You walk into my home uninvited, bypass my perimeter, and the first thing you notice is my maid?"

Julian chuckled, stepping further into the light. His eyes lingered on my torn sleeve and the exposed scars on my arm, a flash of predatory satisfaction crossing his features. "Oh, she’s not just a maid, Vincent. At least, not historically speaking. That’s Elena. Or, well... she used to be Elena Vance. My wife."

The entire room seemed to plunge into absolute zero.

Vincent slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine. The question in his gaze was no longer just about who had hurt me. It was about why a woman supposedly dead and buried in a tragic car accident three years ago was scrubbing floors in his mansion under a false name.

"Your wife?" Vincent repeated softly. "The woman you reported dead in a fiery wreckage in Lake Michigan?"

"A tragic accident," Julian lied smoothly, stepping closer, completely misreading the lethal tension radiating from the mafia boss. "The poor girl couldn’t handle the pressure of my career. She suffered a terrible mental breakdown, mutilated herself in a fit of hysteria, and ran away before we could get her the help she needed. I've mourned her for years."

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing into cold slits of pure venom. "Isn't that right, darling? Time to come home. You've played maid long enough."

Before I could scream, before I could beg Vincent to kill me right there rather than hand me back to Julian, Vincent Moretti moved.

In a blur of motion, Vincent drew a heavy silver-plated Beretta from his holster and jammed the barrel straight under Julian Vance’s chin, snapping his head back violently.