NO ONE COULD HANDLE THE MAFIA BOSS’S DAUGHTER—UNTIL A WAITRESS WALKED INTO THE CHAOS AND DID THE IMPOSSIBLE

The roar of the shotgun deafened the cabin.

Willow felt a searing, white-hot fire rip across her left shoulder, the force of the blast throwing her backward against the dirt floor.

"WILLOW!" Josiah’s scream shook the very foundations of the cabin.

In a blind, murderous frenzy, Josiah drew a backup firearm from his boot and emptied the magazine into Marco Moretti before the man could pump the shotgun a second time. Marco collapsed back into the dark, dead before he hit the floor.

Josiah scrambled across the dirt on his hands and knees, dropping beside Willow. Blood was soaking through her yellow sweater, pooling quickly beneath her shoulder.

"No, no, no, stay with me! Look at me, Willow!" Josiah roared, ripping off his belt and jamming his heavy hand over the wound, pressing down with all his strength.

Mia was screaming, her small hands clutching Willow’s face. "Willow! Don't sleep! Please don't sleep!"

Willow’s vision swirled with dark gray spots. The pain was an ocean, crashing over her in waves, but looking up at Josiah’s terrified, tear-streaked face, she felt a profound, strange peace.

"You... you saved her..." Willow gasped, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.

"You saved me," Josiah wept openly, his tears dropping onto her pale cheek. "Hold on! Do you hear me? You don't get to die! You said you weren't leaving us!"

"Don't... don't be scary to her anymore..." Willow whispered, her hand rising feebly to touch Josiah’s cheek, leaving a faint streak of blood across his jaw. "Be... be her father..."

Her eyes fluttered shut, and her hand fell limp against the dirt.