The first scream ripped through the Rossi mansion so violently that I dropped the towel in my hands. “Harper!” five-year-old Finn cried from upstairs

Ten minutes felt like ten centuries.

I convinced the trembling gas station clerk to lock the front double doors, and we hid behind the reinforced counter near the back office. Every time a car passed by on the highway, my body tensed, expecting the gray vans to pull up and finish what they started.

Then, the distinctive roar of a high-performance engine echoed from the street.

A obsidian-black Bentley continental pulled into the gas station lot, moving so fast it left black tire marks on the asphalt. It didn't park; it slammed to a stop right in front of the glass doors.

The driver's door flew open.

Victor stepped out. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing dark tattoos that crept up his wrists. In his right hand, he held a sleek black handgun.

He looked less like a businessman and more like an apex predator hunting prey.

He marched toward the locked glass doors, his gray eyes sweeping the interior until they locked onto me behind the counter. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the glass.

I scrambled to my feet, ran to the door, and unlocked it.

The moment the lock clicked, Victor threw the door open, grabbed my arm, and pulled me out onto the pavement. His hands moved with terrifying speed—checking my shoulders, my face, scanning for blood, checking my pulse at my neck.

"Are you hit?" he demanded, his voice thick and gravelly. "Are you hurt?"

"I... I have glass in my hair, but I'm fine," I stammered, overwhelmed by his sudden proximity. The scent of cedar, expensive leather, and gunpowder clung to him. "Victor, the men at the house—"

"Mateo has Finn," Victor interrupted, his eyes fixated on my face. "They are secured in a safehouse downtown. Finn is uninjured."

I let out a massive breath of relief, my knees buckling slightly. Victor's grip on my arms tightened instantly, holding me upright.

"You took the maintenance truck," he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked over my shoulder at the bullet-riddled vehicle parked near the air pumps. "You rammed a blockade."

"I had to get out," I said, looking up at him. "They knew my name, Victor. They said the Moretti family wanted leverage."

Victor’s face hardened, his jaw clenching so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. "Frank Moretti made a very fatal mistake today."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them onto the gas station counter toward the frozen clerk. "For the phone. And your silence."

Without waiting for a response, he guided me toward the passenger side of the Bentley, opened the door, and practically shoved me inside. He slammed the door, marched around to the driver's side, and got in.

As he fired up the engine, I looked at his hands on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white.

"Where are we going?" I asked as he tore out of the parking lot, hitting eighty miles an hour in seconds. "To the safehouse?"

"No," Victor said flatly. "The safehouse is compromised if Moretti's men are tracking my vehicles. We are going to my private estate in Lake Forest."

"Is Finn there?"

"He's being moved there now under heavy escort."

I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, closing my eyes as the adrenaline crash finally hit me. My entire body began to shake. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the tremors.

Suddenly, a warm weight settled over my shoulders.

I opened my eyes. Victor had reached over with one hand, pulled his heavy cashmere coat from the back seat, and draped it over me.

"Put it on," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"I'm fine, Mr. Rossi."

"Put the coat on, Harper," he repeated, his voice surprisingly devoid of its usual sharp edge. "You're in shock."

I pulled the coat around myself, sinking into his scent. It was the first time in fourteen months he had shown a shred of genuine concern that wasn't directed at his son.

"Last night," I whispered into the quiet cabin of the car. "In the kitchen. You said... you asked me who was waiting for me outside."

Victor didn't answer. His hands tightened on the wheel.

"Nobody is waiting for me, Victor," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "I don't have a family. I don't have a husband. My parents died when I was in college. That's why I fight so hard for Finn. Because I know what it feels like to be completely alone in a room full of noise."