The explosion reverberated through my bones. Dust and smoke billowed down the grand hallway, choking the air in the kitchen.

Alex didn’t freeze. The hesitation vanished, replaced by pure, terrifying instinct. He shoved me behind the heavy marble island, dragging Nicole down with me.

“Rachel! The panic room, now!” Alex roared over the ringing in my ears.

Rachel didn’t need to be told twice. She scrambled toward the pantry, her hands frantically feeling along the wood paneling for the hidden release switch.

“Madison, tell your father to call them off!” Alex shouted, pulling a heavy, matte-black handgun from an ankle holster I never knew he wore.

Madison didn’t drop to the floor. She stood perfectly still in the center of the kitchen, entirely unbothered by the gunfire that was beginning to echo from the front foyer.

“My father didn’t send them, Alex,” Madison smiled sweetly, brushing plaster dust from her designer dress.

Alex froze, the gun halfway raised. “What?”

“Silas Thorne doesn’t want a peace treaty,” Madison clarified, her voice carrying easily over the chaos. “He wants the shipping ports. He wants the hotels. He wants Chicago. Marrying you was Arthur’s stupid idea of diplomacy. My father prefers a hostile takeover.”

She reached into her small, expensive clutch purse and pulled out a sleek, suppressed pistol. She didn’t aim it at Alex.

She aimed it directly at me, cowering behind the marble island.

“And my father definitely doesn’t want a loose end carrying a legitimate Hayes heir wandering around Michigan,” Madison added coldly.

“No!” Alex screamed, lunging across the kitchen island.

He was incredibly fast, but Madison had the angle. She pulled the trigger.

The suppressed shot sounded like a sharp thwip in the loud room.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the agony, my arms wrapped protectively over my pregnant belly.

But the pain didn’t come.

A heavy weight collapsed on top of me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I opened my eyes.

Nicole was lying across my chest.

She had thrown herself in front of me.

“Nicole!” Alex roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated heartbreak.

He didn’t hesitate this time. Alex raised his weapon and fired twice.

Madison gasped, the smug smile wiped completely from her face. The gun slipped from her fingers as she collapsed backward against the stainless-steel refrigerator, sliding slowly to the floor.

Alex didn’t even look at her body. He scrambled around the island, dropping to his knees beside his sister.

“Nicky. Nicky, look at me,” Alex pleaded, his hands frantically pressing against the dark, spreading stain on Nicole’s shoulder.

“I’m… I’m okay,” Nicole gasped, her face pale, wincing in agony. “It’s just my shoulder. Get Rebecca out of here, Alex.”

“The panic room is open!” Rachel yelled from the pantry, holding a heavy steel door wide.

“Go!” Alex commanded, hauling Nicole to her feet and shoving us toward the pantry.

“I’m not leaving you!” I cried, grabbing his arm as another barrage of gunfire shattered the windows in the living room.

“I have to hold them off!” Alex shouted, pushing me away. “If they get to the panic room before it locks, we all die. Go!”

He didn’t wait for my answer. He turned his back on me, raising his weapon, and stepped out into the hallway to face the men invading our home.

Rachel grabbed my hand, pulling me and a stumbling Nicole into the dark, reinforced steel room hidden behind the pantry shelves.

She slammed the heavy door shut and threw the massive deadbolt.

The silence inside the panic room was absolute, cutting off the sounds of the war raging in our home completely.

The small room was lit by emergency red lights. It was stocked with medical supplies, water, and a bank of security monitors on the wall.

“Sit down,” Rachel ordered, guiding Nicole to a cot in the corner. She immediately grabbed a first aid kit and began packing Nicole’s shoulder wound.

I stood frozen in the center of the room, my hands shaking violently. My mind was spinning, struggling to process the last ten minutes. My husband was a mob boss. His father was alive. His mistress had just tried to execute me and was now dead on my kitchen floor.

I walked over to the security monitors, my breath catching in my throat.

The cameras showed the devastation in the mansion. Heavily armed men were sweeping the rooms.

And on the camera overlooking the grand foyer, I saw Alex.

He was out of bullets, fighting two men in brutal, hand-to-hand combat. He was terrifying—a force of violent nature I had never seen in the man who used to bake biscuits with me.