The Mafia Boss's Son Reached For Me At His Wedding—Then I Looked Up At His Dead Wife’s Face

The rain had turned into a thick, creeping fog by the time our three black vans arrived at the foot of the Shenandoah mountains. The old sanitarium rose like a rotting tomb among the pines, its rusted iron gates chained shut and warning signs peeling off the brickwork.

Alexander signaled his team. Roman and three snipers moved into the treeline with suppressed rifles, taking down the two perimeter sentries with silent precision before they could raise an alarm.

""Remember the plan,"" Alexander whispered, his hand resting on the small of my back as we approached the side entrance. ""You show yourself in the glass corridor. As soon as the sub-level guards shift to intercept, my team breaches the basement vents.""

My hands shook, but the memory of Oliver’s desperate little face kept my spine rigid. I stepped out from the shadow of the brick pillar and walked deliberately down the long, illuminated corridor of the sanitarium's former reception ward.

Inside the glass-paneled hallway, two heavily armed men in black tactical gear instantly froze. One raised his rifle, squinting through the gloom.

""What the hell?"" one guard muttered, fumbling for his radio. ""Unit two, check cell 4! Eleanor Whitmore is walking down the hall! She’s supposed to be sedated!""

""Hold your fire, you idiot! The boss wants her alive for the trade!"" the other screamed.

That single second of confusion was all Alexander needed.

The glass behind the guards shattered inward in an explosion of sparks and thunder. Alexander and Roman breached the room like twin storms, neutralizing the guards in a flurry of close-quarters combat before a single shot could be fired. Alexander kicked away their weapons, his eyes instantly scanning down the spiral metal staircase leading into the subterranean level.

""Down! Now!"" Alexander shouted.

We sprinted through the damp, subterranean tunnels, the smell of damp concrete and antiseptic stinging my nostrils. Heavy iron doors lined the hallway, each marked with rusted patient numbers.

At the end of the corridor was a reinforced steel door with a glowing digital keypad. Roman set an explosive breach charge against the lock, counting down with three fingers.

Three. Two. One.

A muffled shockwave blew the door off its hinges, sending smoke and dust billowing into the corridor. Alexander pushed through first, rifle raised, covering every corner of the room.

The chamber inside was cold, lit only by the green pulse of a cardiac monitor. In the center of the room, strapped to a medical cot, was a woman with long, chestnut hair, pale as marble, her eyes fluttering open as the dust settled.

She looked directly at me.