The fastest way to lose the only woman who truly loves you is to become certain she will never leave. At 10:43 on a Friday night, my husband—the most feared mafia boss in Manhattan—raised his whiskey glass and laughed, “I can sleep with any woman I want. Who exactly is going to stop me?” while I stood ten feet behind him.

Back in Manhattan, the penthouse had become a tomb.

Dante Caruso sat in his leather armchair in the dark, an untouched glass of Lagavulin resting on the table beside him. The apartment smelled of stale smoke and expensive leather, but the subtle floral scent of jasmine that had defined these rooms for nearly a decade was gone.

The front door clicked open.

Marco, Dante’s second-in-command and the only man permitted to enter unannounced, stepped into the shadows of the living room. He held a thick manila folder under his arm.

“Boss,” Marco said quietly.

Dante didn't turn his head. “Did you find her?”

Marco hesitated. That split-second pause was enough to make Dante’s knuckles whiten around his tumbler.

“We tracked the SIM card she fried,” Marco said carefully. “She dropped it in the disposal unit. Her cell phone was in the trash chute. Her primary bank accounts haven't been touched—not a single cent of the household fund, not the credit cards, not the investments.”

“She left the ring,” Dante murmured, his voice hoarse. “Seven carats. The stone my grandfather brought over from Palermo. She left it on a piece of paper like a five-dollar tip for a chambermaid.”

“Dante... you need to focus on the docks,” Marco stepped closer, his voice dropping into urgent tones. “The Moretti family is moving into our Red Hook territory. They think you’re compromised. They saw you break Nico’s face at the club. The commission is calling an emergency hearing for Thursday night. If you don't show up looking like the boss of this city, they’re going to carve us up.”

Dante stood up slowly. In the gloom, he towered over Marco, his physical presence radiating sheer, unadulterated violence.

“Let them try,” Dante snarled. “I built this operation with my own bare hands while the Morettis were still peddling stolen cigarettes in the Bronx. If Sal Moretti takes one step onto Red Hook, put two in his chest and dump him in the Gowanus.”

“And Elena?” Marco asked, bracing himself.

Dante walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass, looking out over the glittering grid of Manhattan. For years, he had believed this city belonged to him. He had convinced himself that every dirty dollar, every threat, every sleepless night was an offering laid at Elena’s feet—proof that he could conquer the world and build an unassailable fortress to keep her safe.

Only when she walked away did the bitter truth reveal itself: she had never wanted the fortress. She had only wanted him.

And he had traded her devotion for the empty applause of men who would slit his throat the moment his back was turned.

“She didn't take a cab out of state,” Dante said, his mind working through the tactical chess board he should have examined weeks ago. “Elena doesn't run toward bright lights. She hates crowds. When her mother died, where did she take me?”

Marco blinked. “Boss?”

“Where did she take me six years ago when she needed to breathe?” Dante snapped, turning around, his hazel eyes igniting with a terrifying, singular purpose. “She took me to a cabin in Maine. Some godforsaken fishing village where nobody asked for my name.”

Marco pulled a pen from his pocket. “Name of the town?”

“St. Jude’s,” Dante breathed, grabbed his overcoat from the sofa, and tossed the manila folder onto the coffee table. “Get the car. Cancel the commission meeting. If Sal Moretti wants Red Hook, tell him he’ll have to take it from my cold hands when I get back.”

“Dante, the commission will declare war—”