Forty-eight hours was supposedly the longest any maid had survived inside Falcone Manor, and several had fled so fast they left their luggage behind on the winding gravel driveway. With twelve dollars and an eviction notice folded tightly in my back pocket, I wasn’t brave enough to challenge three ruthless mafia brothers. I was simply too broke to leave.

Glass rained down like diamond dust across the polished marble floor of the foyer.

Before I could even process the deafening roar of the sniper rifle, Declan grabbed me by the waist, tackled me to the hardwood floor, and threw his heavy body over mine. The scent of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and copper filled my senses as another round tore through the dining room wall, obliterating a priceless oil painting directly above where my head had been seconds earlier.

“Gabriel! West perimeter!” Roman shouted, drawing a matte-black pistol from an armpit holster with terrifying speed.

Gabriel didn't hesitate. He reached beneath the dining table, pulled a concealed latch, and brought out two compact submachine guns. He tossed one to Declan and kept the other, racking the slide with a practiced flick of his wrist.

“Maeve, stay low!” Declan barked into my ear. His rough voice was no longer hostile; it was fiercely protective. “Keep your head down and crawl behind the island!”

I didn't need to be told twice. Fear surged through my veins, but survival instinct took over. I dragged myself on my elbows across the kitchen floor, wedging my body into the tight space between the solid oak cabinets and the heavy marble island.

Outside, the quiet rain was replaced by the sudden, terrifying sound of heavy engine revs and dark SUV doors slamming open. Men with automatic weapons were breaching the estate’s outer courtyard.

“How many?” Gabriel called out, crouched low near the broken dining window, peeking through the torn velvet drapes.

“Eight, maybe ten,” Roman replied calmly, his voice chillingly steady as he reloaded his firearm. “Professional hit squad. Tactical gear, suppressed weapons. This isn't a street gang.”

“They picked the wrong house,” Declan growled, rolling onto his knees. He looked over at me in the corner, his eyes wild and intense. “You okay, kid?”

“I’m... I’m fine!” I managed to choke out, clutching a frying pan like a useless shield. “Who are they?”

“People who want what your mother left behind,” Roman said, stepping into the kitchen doorway. “Declan, take the utility tunnel and secure the vehicles. Gabriel and I will flush them into the courtyard.”

“No,” Gabriel countered, firing a short burst through the window that was met with screams outside. “They aren't here for us, Roman! Look at their movement—they aren't setting up a perimeter to kill us. They’re breaching the kitchen entrance! They’re coming for her!”

Roman’s eyes locked onto mine, a sudden, terrifying realization dawning on his face.

The sniper round hadn't been an assassination attempt on the Falcones. It was suppression fire to force us into cover while a breach team moved in to kidnap me.

“Gabriel, hold the hallway!” Roman ordered.

He lunged toward me, grabbing my wrist with a iron grip and pulling me to my feet. Before I could ask what was happening, he shoved open a hidden panel in the pantry wall—a panic escape passage hidden behind rows of canned goods.

“Get inside,” Roman commanded.

“What about my sister?” I cried out, resisting his pull. “If these people know who I am, they know about Daisy!”

“My men are already at Boston General securing your sister’s room,” Roman said, his thumb brushing against my cheek in a rare, fleeting moment of tenderness that shocked me. “I give you my word, Maeve: no one touches your sister. But you need to move. Now!”

I scrambled into the dark, narrow passage. Roman stepped in right behind me, pulling the heavy steel panel shut just as heavy boots kicked through the kitchen’s back door.

The passage was pitch black and smelled of damp stone and old iron. Roman pulled a small tactical flashlight from his pocket, illuminating a steep flight of stairs leading down into the foundations of the manor. He kept one hand firmly on the small of my back, guiding me down into the darkness as the muffled sounds of gunfire echoed above us.

“Where does this lead?” I whispered, my voice trembling.

“To the old boat house on the cliff side,” Roman explained quietly, his shoes making no sound against the stone. “It’s an emergency exit built during Prohibition.”

We descended three flights of stairs until the sound of fighting faded completely, replaced by the roar of the Atlantic ocean crashing against the rocks below. The air turned salty and cold. We emerged into a subterranean cavern beneath the cliff, where a sleek, black high-speed boat was moored to a wooden dock.

Roman walked over to a control panel on the wall, punching in a code to lower the automated sea gate.

“Wait here,” he said, drawing his weapon again and scanning the shadow-filled dock.

“Roman, tell me the truth,” I said, stepping closer to him, refusing to be left in the dark any longer. “What encryption key were you talking about upstairs? My mother didn't have fifty million dollars. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment with a leaking roof! She worked sixty hours a week until her body gave out!”

Roman turned to face me, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dim cavern.

“Elena didn't spend the money, Maeve. She hid it,” he said softly. “When Carmine threatened her, she knew that if she ever used those funds, he would trace her. So she locked the accounts with a biological or personal key—something only her true heir could unlock.”

“I don't have a key!” I shouted over the sound of the waves. “She didn't leave me a treasure map! She left me a box of old recipes and a mountain of unpaid bills!”

Roman froze. He slowly lowered his flashlight, aiming the light toward my face, then down toward my neck.

“A box of old recipes?” he asked carefully.

“Yes! Just handwritten index cards in a metal box!”

“Maeve,” Roman said, his voice laced with sudden urgency. “Where is that box?”

Before I could answer, a loud metallic click echoed from the top of the cavern stairs.

“I’m afraid that box belongs to the Syndicate now, Miss Carter,” a slick, familiar voice called out from the shadows above.

A man stepped into the light of the subterranean catwalk. He wore a sharp silver suit, flanked by four heavily armed mercenaries pointing assault rifles straight at Roman’s head.