I threw up beside our unsigned divorce papers and told my mafia husband it was only carsickness, but Dorian Cross took one look at me and canceled the meeting with two words

The iron gates of Arthur Vane’s sprawling lakeside estate in Winnetka didn't stand a chance against the front bumper of Dorian’s reinforced Suburban.

CRASH!

The ornamental ironwork buckled and tore away from its stone pillars as the heavy SUV smashed through the entrance, sweeping up the circular gravel driveway before sliding to a violent, controlled halt right in front of the grand double doors of the mansion.

Behind them, two more black vans carrying Dorian’s elite tactical squad peeled off the highway, boxing in the driveway and cutting off any possible escape routes.

Before the gravel had even settled, Dorian pushed his door open and stepped out into the rain.

He didn't wait for his men. He walked straight up the marble steps of the porch, raised the butt of his Sig Sauer, and smashed it through the decorative glass panel beside the front door. He reached through, unlocked the deadbolt from the inside, and kicked the heavy oak door open with a resounding thud.

Alina stayed inside the vehicle with Dr. Mercer, her heart pounding in her throat as she watched through the tinted window.

Inside the mansion, shouts echoed down the hallway.

Clatter of footsteps.

Two of Vane’s private guards rushed around the corner of the foyer, raising their weapons—only to be met with the cold, unforgiving barrel of Dorian’s P229.

"Drop them," Dorian commanded.

The guards took one look into Dorian Cross’s eyes—the eyes of a man who had nothing left to lose and everything to protect—and slowly dropped their weapons to the polished hardwood floor, raising their hands.

"Where is he?" Dorian demanded, grabbing the lead guard by the collar of his tactical vest and slamming him against the wall.

"The... the study," the guard choked out, pointing frantically down the corridor. "Third door on the left."

Dorian shoved him aside, his boots hitting the floor like thunder as he marched down the hallway. He didn't even bother knocking. He kicked the mahogany door of the private study off its hinges.

Arthur Vane—the distinguished, silver-haired retired attorney and respected philanthropist—sat behind his massive oak desk, holding a glass of scotch that was shaking so violently the amber liquid was sloshing over the rim.

"D-Dorian," Arthur stammered, scrambling backward in his leather chair, his face slick with sweat. "Now, wait a minute. Let’s... let’s talk. We’re family—"

"Family doesn't put a bounty on my wife," Dorian said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he raised his weapon and pointed it squarely at Arthur’s chest.

Arthur raised his hands, dropping the glass. It shattered against the rug, amber liquid pooling like blood over the fabric. "It was business! The syndicate offered—"

"There is no syndicate anymore," Dorian interrupted, stepping closer until the barrel of his gun was inches from Arthur’s tie. "There is only what I allow to exist. And as of tonight, your name, your assets, your shell companies, and your entire bloodline are wiped clean from the financial ledgers of this city."

Arthur opened his mouth to plead, but the sound was cut short as Dorian reversed the weapon, bringing the heavy polymer grip down across Arthur’s temple with blinding speed.

The older man crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he even hit the rug.

Dorian stood over him for a second, his chest heaving, his dark eyes burning with the cold satisfaction of a wolf that had just defended its den.