My husband forgot our fifth anniversary and spent it kissing another woman in his private office while the dinner I carried across Chicago fell from my hands

The snow fell for three days straight, burying Whispering Bay beneath a silent, suffocating blanket of white.

By the time the plows cleared the main road, I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant. My ankles were swollen, my back burned with constant, dull agony, and my OB-GYN in Bangor had warned me that my cervix was beginning to shorten prematurely.

"Bed rest, Elena," Doctor Cole had instructed me during my last visit via telemedicine. "Strict bed rest. If you go into labor before thirty-two weeks in a remote town like Whispering Bay, the local clinic won't have the neonatal ICU facilities to keep those babies alive. Do you understand me?"

I understood completely.

Which was why I had only left the cottage to pick up my essential iron supplements and groceries from the town’s small general store.

The wind off the bay was vicious, carrying needles of ice that stung my face. I walked slowly, bundled in an oversized down coat that barely zipped over my massive belly, my boots crunching carefully on the salted walkway.

As I reached the door of the general store, the bell jingled overhead.

Old Mr. Higgins looked up from behind the counter, adjusting his glasses. "Afternoon, Elena. You shouldn't be out in this. Wind chill is five below."

"Just need the prescription delivery, Mr. Higgins," I said, offering a tight, exhausted smile. "And some milk."

"Got your box right here from the Bangor pharmacy," he said, pulling a brown cardboard parcel from the shelf. "Say, Elena... you expecting company from out of state?"

My hand froze midway to my pocket.

The air in the store suddenly felt thick, heavy with the scent of pine cleaner and stale coffee.

"Company?" I asked, my voice dangerously steady. "No. Why?"

"Fella was in here yesterday," Higgins said casually, scanning my milk. "Driving a dark Suburban. Heavy plates. Had city shoes on—not the kind of boots you wear up here unless you want your toes frozen off. Asked if I knew an Elena Brooks living out on the bluffs."

The blood rushed out of my head, leaving a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

"What... what did he look like?"

"Tall guy. Thick neck. Had a scar running right through his left eyebrow. Didn't look like an architect, that’s for sure. Spoke with an accent. New York or Chicago, maybe. Said he was an insurance investigator checking up on an old policy."

*Not Dante.*

Dante didn't send solitary men in Suburbans to ask questions. Dante traveled with an army, and his men didn't have scars across their brows.

That scar belonged to someone else.

My mind flashed back to the charity galas, the cold dinners where Dante had pointed out his enemies across crowded ballrooms while gripping my hand beneath the table.

*“That’s Sal Vitucci,”* Dante had whispered to me two years ago at a fundraising event at the Art Institute. *“Enforcer for the Rossi family. If you ever see him near you without my guards present, you run, Lena. He doesn't take prisoners. He takes leverage.”*

Matteo Rossi was dead. Dante had butchered him.

And the surviving remnants of the Rossi syndicate weren't looking for Dante. They knew they couldn't beat Dante in Chicago.

They were looking for *me*.

They didn't want to bring me home. They wanted to slaughter Dante’s wife and use my body to balance the blood debt.

"What did you tell him, Mr. Higgins?" I whispered, my voice trembling so hard the words barely made it past my lips.

Higgins frowned, finally noticing the sheer terror in my eyes. "Elena? You alright? You’re white as a sheet."

"What did you tell him?!"

"I... I told him I didn't know who he was talking about! I told him the bluffs were just summer rentals, all empty this time of year! I didn't like the look of him, Elena. What’s going on? Are you in trouble?"

"Thank you," I gasped, grabbing the pharmacy box and leaving a fifty-dollar bill on the counter. I didn't wait for my change. I didn't take the milk.

I pushed through the door into the biting wind.

My car was parked across the street. Every step felt like wading through wet cement. My lower back flared with agonizing heat; the pressure between my hips was unbearable.

*They found me.*

Not Dante. The monsters Dante had provoked had tracked me down before he could.

I reached the gray sedan, my hands shaking so violently I dropped the keys into the snowbank.

"No, no, no," I sobbed, dropping to my knees. The icy slush soaked through my wool trousers, freezing my skin. I dug through the snow with bare fingers until metal scraped against my fingernails.

I grabbed the keys, hauled myself back to my feet using the car door for leverage, and threw myself into the driver's seat.

I locked the doors and started the engine.

I looked into the rearview mirror.

A hundred yards down the snow-covered street, parked beneath the shadow of the coastal cannery, the headlights of a black Suburban flickered to life.

They hadn't left town. They had been waiting outside the only general store in Whispering Bay, knowing that eventually, a heavily pregnant woman living in an isolated cottage would have to buy food.

A sharp, violent pain tore through my pelvic bone.

*Not now. Please, God, not now.*

The babies kicked in frantic unison. My water hadn't broken, but the contractions were no longer rhythmic Braxton Hicks. They were sharp, descending waves of iron that threatened to split me in two.

I slammed the sedan into reverse, tires spinning against the packed ice before catching traction, and sped out onto the coastal highway.