My new husband’s first words after the priest pronounced us married weren’t a promise of love. They were a threat so cold I felt it beneath my skin. “Smile, Evelyn,” Roman Caruso whispered as he lifted my veil. “Your brother is watching, and I want him to believe I haven’t decided how to punish you yet.”

The underground storm tunnel smelled of stagnant river water, rust, and old concrete.

We crawled through the narrow conduit for nearly ten minutes before the floor began to slope upward, leading toward a heavy steel maintenance hatch set into the ceiling.

I pushed my hand upward against the metal panel. It gave way with a soft, oiled click.

We had made it inside Bay B.

I poked my head out cautiously. We were inside the lower municipal office—a small, windowless concrete room cluttered with old filing cabinets, greasy tool benches, and a single set of stairs leading up to the main warehouse floor.

Through the open door at the top of the stairs, harsh halogen light spilled across the floor, accompanied by the sound of muffled voices echoing through the cavernous space.

“She’s waking up,” a harsh, unfamiliar voice sneered overhead.

“Shut her up,” another voice barked—Julian Vance’s unmistakable, corporate-smooth tone. “Grant wants her intact until the transfer papers are signed by Roman. Once the Caruso empire is ours, we put a bullet in both of them and dump them in the harbor.”

I looked at Roman. His face had gone completely, terrifyingly blank. The fury in his eyes was blinding.

He drew his Sig Sauer, checking the chamber with a quiet, practiced click, then handed me a compact backup pistol he carried in his tactical vest.

“Can you use this?” Roman whispered.

I took the weapon, the metal feeling cold and reassuring in my palm. “I grew up in an Arthur Mercer household, Roman. I’ve known how to shoot since I was twelve.”

A ghost of a proud smile touched his lips. “Stay behind me. If anyone comes down these stairs, you shoot. If I don't come back down... you take the drainage tunnel and run.”

“We’re finishing this together,” I whispered fiercely.

Roman nodded once. He crept up the stairs, moving like a phantom, hugging the concrete wall. I followed closely behind him, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

We reached the top landing, peering around the edge of a massive industrial shelving unit.

The scene before us was a nightmare.

In the center of the vast, open warehouse floor sat a wooden chair. Tied securely to it, her hands bound behind her back and a strip of duct tape across her mouth, was Isabella Caruso. Her dark hair was disheveled, and dark bruises stained her cheek.

Standing directly in front of her, holding a sleek fountain pen and a leather-bound portfolio, was Julian Vance.

And lounging casually against a stack of steel crates a few feet away, sipping a glass of bourbon, was my brother.

Grant Mercer.

Looking smug, wealthy, and utterly untouchable.

“Come on, sweethear,” Grant laughed, walking over to Isabella and crouching down in front of her. He reached out, ripping the duct tape off her mouth with a cruel yank.

Isabella gasped, tears streaming down her face, but she glared at him with pure venom. “Go to hell.”

Grant chuckled, standing back up and adjusting his expensive silk tie. “Such a fiery temper. Just like your brother. Too bad Roman’s probably bleeding out in a ditch right now thanks to my Boston friends.”

“You’re a monster, Grant,” Isabella choked out.

“I’m a businessman,” Grant corrected smoothly, turning to Julian. “Hand me the pen, Julian. Let’s sign away the Caruso shipping lanes and put this miserable family in the ground once and for all.”

Julian stepped forward, extending the pen.