By the time I aimed my gun at the young maid holding my dying son against her bare chest, Leo had already done what twenty doctors, three private clinics, and millions of dollars could not make him do.

The mountain road was a treacherous, twisting ribbon of black ice and snow. The sports coupe drifted violently around the sharp curves, its engine roaring like a wounded beast as I pushed the vehicle far beyond its mechanical limits.

Through my earpiece, the sound of the battle at the safehouse was a chaotic nightmare. I could hear the sharp, distinctive pop of Hunter's Sig Sauer, followed by the heavy, deafening roar of automatic weapons ripping through the log cabin's walls.

"Hunter! Report!" I shouted into the mic, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.

"Two... two down in the living room," she panted, her voice breathless and desperate. "I hit them when they came through the window. But the kitchen door is giving way. I’m out of ammunition for the Sig, Lorenzo! I’m using the Winchester rifle from the gun rack now!"

"Keep your head down, Hunter! I’m five minutes away!"

A sudden, massive explosion rocked the audio line, followed by a high-pitched whine of static. The satellite connection died.

"Hunter! Hunter!" I screamed, but the line was dead.

I burst through the final line of trees, the safehouse coming into view. The beautiful log cabin was riddled with bullet holes, several windows shattered, and one of the black SUVs was wedged halfway through the front porch, its headlights illuminating the falling snow.

Two Luciano hitmen were standing near the front door, carrying heavy assault rifles, preparing to move inside with a canister of gasoline to burn the house down.

I didn't tap the brakes. I drove my sports coupe straight into the rear of the closest SUV, the impact a horrific crunch of metal and fiberglass that sent the vehicle spinning into the two hitmen, pinning them against the stone foundation of the porch.

I threw myself out of the driver's door before my car even stopped moving, my rifle already raised.

I took down the third gunman near the steps with three rapid rounds to his center mass. I bounded up the porch steps, stepping over the debris and entering the smoke-filled living room.

The interior was a ruin. The beautiful leather furniture was shredded by bullets, the walls blackened by flash-grenade soot. Two bodies in tactical gear lay on the floor near the sofa, exactly where Hunter had said she shot them.

"Hunter!" I called out, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Leo!"

No answer.

I moved toward the kitchen, my boots crunching on broken glass. In the center of the room, standing over the trapdoor that led to the sub-basement safe room, stood Vincent Luciano himself. The head of the Luciano family was an old, cruel man with white hair, dressed in an expensive cashmere coat that was now stained with plaster dust.

In his left hand, he held Leo by the scruff of his wool blanket, dangling my son over the concrete floor like a piece of meat. In his right hand, he held a gold-plated revolver pointed directly at Hunter, who was pinned against the counter, her face bruised, her shirt torn, but her green eyes still blazing with a defiant fury.

"Ah, Lorenzo," Vincent smiled, his voice smooth and ancient. "You’re just in time for the finale. Your father took my territory in '94. Your wife took my son’s eyes when her security detail fired on his car in Chicago. And now, this little maid of yours took four of my best men tonight."

"Put my son down, Vincent," I said, my rifle level, my sights aligned perfectly with the space between his eyes. "This is between you and me. Let the girl and the baby go."

"There are no negotiations left, Lorenzo," Vincent sighed, his finger tightening around the trigger of the revolver. "The Rossi line ends tonight. It’s just business."

Before Vincent could pull the trigger, Hunter didn't move away—she lunged toward him.

She ignored the gun pointed at her face and grabbed Vincent’s right wrist with both hands, throwing her entire weight downward, forcing his arm toward the floor just as the gold-plated revolver discharged. The round tore through the hardwood floorboards, missing her foot by inches.

The distraction allowed me to fire a single, non-lethal round through Vincent’s shoulder, the force of the impact spinning him around and causing him to drop Leo.

I lunged forward, sliding across the kitchen floor like a baseball player, my arms reaching out to catch my son an inch before his body could strike the hard concrete.

I pulled Leo into my chest, rolling over to shield him with my back as Hunter grabbed the heavy iron skillet from the stove and slammed it into Vincent’s face with a resounding, metallic clang that knocked the old mob boss completely unconscious.

The kitchen fell into a sudden, absolute silence, broken only by the sound of Leo’s loud, indignant cries as he realized his sleep had been disrupted.

I sat on the floor, holding my crying son tightly against my chest, my body shaking with a profound, overwhelming relief. Hunter dropped the skillet, collapsing onto her knees beside me. She didn't look at the unconscious billionaire on the floor; she reached out, her trembling fingers touching Leo’s face, before her green eyes lifted to meet mine.

"He’s okay," she whispered, her voice cracking with tears. "Lorenzo... he’s okay."