They moved my seat at a luxury charity gala so I would sit beside the scarred mafia boss everyone was afraid to look at

The war had spilled into the open.

Within two hours of the assassination attempt at Foshay Tower, Leandro had mobilized his entire organization. The local authorities were completely locked out; this was a war fought in the shadows between two titans of the Midwest underworld.

Leandro insisted on moving me and my mother out of the state immediately.

"A private jet is waiting at the executive airfield in Rochester," Leandro said as we stood in the grand entrance of the estate. The night outside was black and stormy, thunder rumbling across the river bluffs. "My private estate in southern Italy is completely secure. Dante will escort you and your mother personally."

"No," I said firmly, grabbing his hands.

Leandro looked at me, stunned. "Clare, this is not a negotiation. Alexei Morozov has sent his personal hit squads into the state. They know you are my weakness. If they take you—"

"I am not your weakness, Leandro!" I interrupted, stepping closer, holding his gaze with fierce determination. "I am the one who saw the poison tonight! I am the one who stood by you on that dance floor! You don't get to push me away just because things are getting dark!"

"I am trying to keep you alive!" he shouted, his voice cracking with raw emotion. "Marco died in my car, Clare! I had to watch the fire take him while I was pinned beneath the steel! I cannot—I *will not* watch the fire take you!"

The pain in his confession hung heavy in the air between us.

I reached up, gently cupping both sides of his face—the smooth cheek and the deeply scarred tissue. I leaned in, pressing my forehead against his.

"You are not going to lose me," I whispered softly. "And you are not going to fight this alone. If you are going to the airstrip, we go together. But do not send me away like I am something fragile. I chose to stand beside you."

Leandro closed his eyes, leaning into my touch, letting out a long, ragged breath that sounded like a surrender.

"God help me," he whispered, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me with a fierce, desperate passion. "I love you, Clare Donnelly. More than this empire. More than my own life."

My heart soared even amidst the chaos. "I love you too, Leandro."

Ten minutes later, our three-car armored convoy rolled out of the estate gates, heading south along the winding river highway toward Rochester. Rain lashed against the armored windows in blinding sheets, lightning illuminating the dense pine forests flanking the road.

I sat in the back of the lead Maybach, my hand tightly clasped in Leandro’s. Marco drove with intense focus, his eyes darting between the rain-slicked highway and the GPS tactical scanner.

"Convoy two reports clear on the rear flank," Dante reported from the front passenger seat. "We have twenty miles to the airfield."

Suddenly, a massive flash of lightning ripped through the sky—and illuminated a fallen logging truck blocking both lanes of the highway around a blind curve.

"Ambush!" Marco yelled, slamming on the heavy anti-lock brakes.

The Maybach skidded across the wet asphalt, stopping inches from the massive logs. Behind us, our escort vehicle was violently struck from a side service road by a heavy armored snowplow, spinning off the shoulder into the ditch.

Before anyone could move, high-intensity floodlights flared from the tree line.

Automatic gunfire erupted, peppering the armored plating and bulletproof glass of our car like hail. The heavy glass cracked into spiderweb patterns, but held firm.

"Stay down!" Leandro commanded, shoving me toward the floorboards and drawing two firearms from beneath his coat. "Marco, reverse! Ram through the service road!"

"Transmission is jammed, Boss!" Marco yelled, wrestling with the controls. "They dropped spike strips beneath the logs!"

More gunfire hammered the doors. Through the cracked glass, I saw at least a dozen armed men advancing from the woods, wearing tactical gear.

Leandro looked at Dante, his jaw set like iron. "We fight through. We do not let them breach this car."

"Leandro, wait!" I screamed, grabbing his arm as he prepared to kick open the door.

I pointed through the rear window. Through the rain and the flashing gunfire, I saw the headlights of three massive, unmarked black SUVs tearing down the highway behind our attackers.

"Who is that?!" Dante yelled, raising his rifle.

A voice crackled over Leandro’s encrypted radio—a deep, resonant voice with a slight southern drawl.

"Vitali, you stubborn bastard. Did you really think Chicago could cross into my shipping lanes without an invitation?"

Leandro’s eyes went wide. "Marcus Vance."

The head of the Kansas City syndicate. A man Leandro had secretly partnered with during his commercial expansion two years earlier.

The three heavy SUVs smashed directly into the flank of the ambushers' vehicles, scattering the attackers. Heavily armed reinforcements poured out, returning fire with overwhelming force.

The ambush dissolved into chaos within seconds. The attackers, completely outflanked and outgunned, broke rank and scattered into the dark woods, pursued by Vance's men.

The rain beat down relentlessly on the battered roof of our car as the gunfire died away into silence.

Leandro sat back, his breathing ragged, his hand instantly finding mine in the darkness. He pulled me up onto the seat, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I could barely breathe, burying his face in my neck.