The first time I saw my fiancée raise her hand toward my seven-year-old daughter, I was on my knees in the dirt pretending to be a gardener. Nobody at the charity brunch knew the quiet man trimming roses was Evan Whitaker—the mafia boss who owned half the fear in Connecticut—and nobody knew I had come home early to find out why my children had started flinching whenever my name was mentioned.

I kicked backward with all my strength, my heavy work boot connecting with a satisfying crunch of bone.

The man cursed loudly, his grip on my ankle vanishing instantly.

I didn't look back, scrambling forward through the suffocating darkness of the drainage pipe.

The walls were slick with moss and foul-smelling water, making every inch of progress agonizingly slow.

Ahead of me, I could hear Caleb crying softly and Grace whispering urgent words of encouragement.

"Keep moving, don't stop!" I shouted, hearing the splash of boots entering the tunnel behind me.

Gunshots echoed deafeningly in the enclosed space, the bullets ricocheting off the curved concrete walls.

A sharp, burning pain sliced across my left shoulder, but the adrenaline masked the worst of it.

Finally, the pipe opened up into a larger, cavernous storm drain that fed into the river bordering my property.

We tumbled out into the waist-deep water, gasping for fresh evening air.

Grace caught my arm, her eyes widening as she saw the dark blood blossoming on my faded denim shirt.

"You're hit," she said, her voice tight with real concern.

"It's just a graze," I lied, pushing past the pain to lift Caleb onto my uninjured shoulder.

We waded through the freezing river, using the thick brush along the bank to shield us from the estate above.

Flames were now shooting from the upper windows of my mansion, painting the night sky a horrific shade of orange.

Everything I had built over the last ten years was burning to ashes.

We hiked for two miles through the dense woods until we reached a secluded highway overpass.

I dug a burner phone out of my waterproof pocket, intending to call the only man left I could truly trust.

I dialed the number of Victor, my oldest friend and the chief of police in the neighboring county.

The line rang three times before Victor picked up, his voice hushed and incredibly panicked.

"Evan, wherever you are, you need to run," Victor whispered into the receiver.

"Victor, I need a car and medical supplies, my family is with me," I pleaded.

"I can't help you, Evan," Victor replied, his voice breaking with deep guilt.

The Billionaire Put On a Waiter’s Apron to Test His Fiancée, but the Wom...

My father bet twenty dollars that I would walk through his front door al...

My Husband Slapped Me Out of His House for His Mistress, Then the Most F...

"The Romeros didn't just burn your house down, they planted evidence framing you for the murder of the mayor."

Before I could process the words, police sirens began wailing from every direction, closing in on our exact location.

Chapter 6 - The Mud and the Blood