Chapter 1 - THE BLOOD IN THE WINE CELLARThe name flashing on Mara Ellison’s phone screen was Vincent Vance—Silas Marcone’s chief legal advisor, trustee of the Marcone Empire, and the man who, just six hours ago, had asked Mara to sign a blank non-disclosure agreement regarding the estate's tax ledgers.
"Not him," Silas repeated, his voice a low, raspy growl that vibrated through the damp, cold air of the sub-cellar. His hazel eyes, usually sharp enough to slice through steel, were bloodshot and glazed with fever, yet locked onto Mara’s phone with terrifying intensity.
Mara’s thumb hovered half an inch above the green call button.
"Vincent?" Mara whispered, her voice trembling. "Vincent called the emergency medical team for you last night when you didn't show up for the Commission meeting... He told the entire staff you were in Miami fixing a shipping dispute."
"Vincent put two hollow-point bullets into my shoulder at three in the morning," Silas gasped out, his chest heaving under his ruined white dress shirt. Sweat soaked his dark hair, plastering it to his forehead. "He tied me to this chair... transferred fifty-one percent of the Marcone holding stock to a shell account in the Caymans... and signed a power of attorney using a forged seal."
Mara’s breath caught in her throat.
The document.
The paper Vincent had asked her to witness last night wasn't an NDA. It was a transfer deed backdated by three days.
"Mama," little Poppy piped up from behind Mara’s legs, tugging at her mother’s faded blue maid skirt. "I tried to snip the blue string with my rabbit scissors, but it snapped. Mr. Silas is bleeding on his fancy shoes."
Mara dropped to her knees, grabbing her daughter’s small shoulders. "Poppy, listen to me very carefully. I need you to go to the corner behind those wooden wine crates. Do not make a sound. Do not come out until Mama tells you to. Do you understand?"
Poppy’s large dark eyes blinked, seeing the sheer panic in her mother’s face. She nodded solemnly, clutching her stuffed yellow duck to her chest, and scurried behind the heavy oak crates stacking the cellar wall.
Mara turned back to Silas.
At twenty-six, Mara Ellison was a woman whom society considered part of the background. A single mother, plus-size, with soft, rounded hips, warm golden skin, and a quiet demeanor, she had spent four years working as the head housekeeper of Marcone Manor. To the politicians, mob bosses, and high-society women who frequented the estate, Mara was just the woman who made sure the silver was polished and the silk sheets were pressed.
They didn't know that before her husband died in a construction accident and left her broke, Mara had spent three years in nursing school.
Mara reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a pair of heavy-duty brass kitchen shears she used for cutting floral arrangements.
"Hold still," Mara commanded, her hands steadying despite her racing heart.
She slipped the sharp blade beneath the thick blue nylon cord binding Silas’s left wrist.
SNAP.
The cord gave way.
Silas let out a harsh, gravelly gasp as the pressure released, his bruised arm dropping heavily. Mara worked quickly, slicing through the cords on his right wrist and ankles.
The moment he was free, the six-foot-three billionaire kingpin pitched forward.
"I’ve got you!" Mara gasped, catching his massive, iron-padded body against her chest.
His weight almost knocked her off her feet, but Mara planted her hips, holding his feverish, muscular frame tightly against her soft curves. His head dropped into the crook of her neck, his hot breath fanning across her collarbone. The scent of copper blood, expensive cedarwood cologne, and cold rain filled her senses.
"You're heavy, Mr. Marcone," she whispered, her hands pressing into his broad, damp back.
"Call me Silas," he rasped, his hand instinctively reaching up to wrap around her waist, his large fingers digging into her soft hip, holding onto her like a lifeline in a storm. "You're holding up a dying man, Mara."
"You're not dying on my shift," Mara snapped, her South-Side steel flaring through her quiet exterior. "Not in my wine cellar."
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the top of the stone cellar stairs creaked open.
Heavy leather boots echoed against the stone steps.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
"Silas?" Vincent Vance’s smooth, educated voice drifted down into the gloom. "I brought the notary, old friend. It's time to sign over the real estate titles before the morning news hits."
Mara’s blood ran cold.
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She looked at Silas. He couldn't stand. His weapon had been taken. His men were upstairs, believing he was in Miami, entirely loyal to Vincent’s orders.
If Vincent found them down here, he wouldn't just kill Silas. He would kill Mara... and three-year-old Poppy.
