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.

“Dante!”

I dropped to my knees beside him, the cold mud soaking through my jeans. I tore open his coat, ripping through his silk dress shirt with frantic fingers. A shotgun pellet had caught him just below the ribs, tearing through muscle and flesh. Blood was pumping out with terrifying speed, steaming faintly in the freezing Maine air.

“Hey,” Dante whispered, his face turning an ashen, translucent gray. He reached up with trembling, blood-slicked fingers, weakly cupping my cheek. “You... you swung that crowbar like a street fighter, little bird.”

“Shut up! Shut up, Dante, keep your eyes on me!” I pulled off my woolen scarf, balling it up and shoving it violently into the wound.

Dante groaned, his head falling back against the wet gravel, his teeth grinding together so hard I heard enamel squeak.

“Don't you dare die on this dirt,” I sobbed, pressing down on his abdomen with the full weight of my torso. “You hear me? You don't get to come here, ruin my peace, bleed all over my life, and just quit! Dante! Look at me!”

His hazel eyes flickered open, hazy with pain, but entirely anchored on my face.

“I heard you... at the gala,” Dante rasped, each breath rattling in his chest. “Every word... you said at the valet. You were right. I forgot... who I was. I forgot that without you... I’m just another thug with an expensive watch.”

“Save your breath, Dante!”

“No... gotta say it now,” he coughed, blood speckling his lower lip. “If I die here... Marco has instructions. Everything goes to you. The holdings, the trust, the properties. Clean. I spent three weeks... putting it all in your name, Elena. Sal Moretti... thought he was taking my empire. He doesn't know... I already gave it away.”

My tears fell hot and fast onto his pale forehead. “I don't want your money, Dante! I never wanted your empire!”

“I know,” he whispered, his hand sliding weakly from my cheek to grip my wrist with fading strength. “You wanted me. And I was too blind... to see that was the only crown... worth keeping.”

Headlights cut through the rain again.

I whipped around, terror seizing my heart, preparing to grab the shotgun from the mud. But it wasn't more hitmen. Walter’s old pickup truck skidded to a halt beside the boathouse, followed immediately by three black Cadillacs led by Marco, who had tracked Dante’s emergency beacon from the highway.

Men in dark suits spilled out of the cars, weapons drawn, securing the perimeter in seconds.

“Boss!” Marco yelled, skidding through the mud to drop beside us.

“Get the medic!” I screamed at Marco, my hands still covered in Dante’s blood, pinning the soaked scarf to his flesh. “He’s losing blood! Get him in the car NOW!”

Marco looked at me, then at Dante’s fading eyes, and barked into his radio: “Call Dr. Rossi at the Bangor airfield. Move! MOVE!”

As they lifted Dante’s limp body onto a portable stretcher, his fingers weakly hooked into my sweater, refusing to let go.

“Elena...” he murmured into the rain.

I climbed into the back of the SUV beside him, taking his cold, bloody hand in both of mine.