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IN THIS MAFIA LIFE, we have enough worries as it is, and we want to enjoy our families when we get the opportunity, so Luca dotes on me and our children inside the sanctuary of our apartment for the next two days. It’s not until Sunday that Luca has to go to the club.

Luckily, taking care of twins fills my day, making it pass by faster. When I’ve bathed and fed them on Sunday, it’s already noon and time for Cam and Amalia to pick up Milana to take her to their apartment while Noah stays with me.

Lounging against the cream cushions, I relax on the white wooden reading bench by the floor-to-ceiling windows inside my library, my favorite room in our penthouse. The walls are painted a bright white, and there are white bookshelves running up to the ceiling on the left wall with a sliding library ladder. The other wall is decorated with huge bookcase letters spelling dolcezza – all done by Luca before we even got married. The space is almost as large as the master suite and features two bathrooms, so we’ll probably turn it into two rooms once the kids are bigger. That way, they’ll each have their own bedroom and bathroom.

I love cuddling here with Noah, smelling his baby soap as I enjoy a romance novel on my e-reader, but when the buzzer rings, I put my e-reader down on a cushion and stand up with Noah supported on one arm, fast asleep. For a second, I see blotches, but since they subside quickly, I figure it must be just a head rush and I continue to the front door. I buzz the guy up since I already know he has a delivery from the bakery downtown, arranged by Luca every week because I have such a sweet tooth.

When the elevator opens, Noah stirs as the guy hands me a square box. “Hey, Fallon. Here are your cakes.”

“Thanks. See you next week,” I tell him right before the doors close, and I comment to Noah in excitement, “What did we get today, pumpkin?” Walking to the kitchen island, I set the box down and lift the lid. The sugary sweet aroma of three cronuts drifts up. “Yum. Too bad you can’t have any sugar yet, Noah.”

I kiss his button nose as he opens his green eyes drowsily, but before I can take a pastry out, my smartphone vibrates on the kitchen counter, displaying an incoming message.

Luca: Dolcezza, meet me for lunch at The Spicy Mexican at one.

I’m eager to meet my husband, and since I’m already wearing my black jeans and wool sweater, I tread to the couch where the car seat is placed. Sitting down, I grab Noah’s jacket and wrap him warmly before I put a knitted hat on his head. After I strap him in, I cover him with another blanket and right the handle, and then I throw on my white coat. Taking the seat and my purse, with my gun and phone inside, I move into the elevator to ride down and go out the entrance where a gust of ice- cold air blasts against my cheeks as the darkened clouds shroud the sky. I hail the first cab I see and give the address, telling him to stop at the park close to the restaurant.

***

AFTER I STEP OUT OF the cab with Noah’s seat in my hand, I take my time as I saunter through the park toward The Spicy Mexican. I raise my face to the fresh wind, loving the smell of winter, and touch the bare hedges I pass while I observe the people strolling by. I watch children playing ball in the grass, and when one rolls to a stop right in front of my feet, I kick it back to a young girl in ponytails. She waves and I return the gesture.

As I leave the park, I see that, unfortunately, the path toward the restaurant seems to be closed down for maintenance, so I have to take a detour around the greenery and enter a side street between two buildings to get to the restaurant. It’s deserted, but it’s short, and it’ll get me where I need to go faster. I pick up the pace, walking by a streetlight as a dog barks.

Then a sudden sense of doom crawls up my spine, and I become aware of my surroundings as Luca’s taught me. Noticing footsteps behind me, I look back over my shoulder and observe a shadow that’s also coming from the park. I’m not sure if the person is following me or simply heading in the same direction, but even so, I anxiously speed forward, creeped out.

As the footsteps gain on me, I start to sprint, but the car seat slows me down, and I’m too late. Someone jumps on me, and although I manage to step a little to the side and put the seat down next to the building, I still fall onto my hands and knees on the pavement, pain shooting through them, but I refuse to lie down.

My attacker grabs my arm and shoves me onto my back while my gaze is glued on Noah.

“Help—”

My cry is muffled by a sweaty hand, and I try to bite him, in vain. The man, who has blond hair and is wearing a beat-up leather jacket, leans forward while he sits on my thighs, his weight crushing me, and I’m unable to get my gun.

“Shut the hell up,” he orders, digging his elbow into one of my arms and slamming the other against the ground beside my ear as I attempt to scoot with my feet, my maternal instinct kicking in.

“If I remove my hand, will you scream?”

When I shake my head, he lifts his hand from my mouth and I howl, “Help!!” at the top of my lungs, spurred on by my absolute fear for my son.

He shows me a malicious smile as I purse my lips in terror and when his palm rests on my throat, I can smell alcohol on his breath. Still, I try to reason with him since I’m all alone with a man who’s much stronger than I am. “What do you want? If it’s money, I have no cash!”

Studying me, he narrows his eyes. “I want the mafia wife,” he slurs. “And that’s you.”

Dread grows as I realize this is Syndicate related. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?” I buy time as my fingers search the ground for something to hit him with while his elbow pushes painfully into the front of my shoulder.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he spits in my face, regarding me with contempt. “And having your son is even better.”

When I nearly get my hand on a glass bottle, my fingertips cause it to roll away from me, so I decide that my only chance is to fight him with all my bodily strength and I attempt to roll over, but he’s too heavy.

“Get off me, asshole!”

“You’re a tough cookie.” He flattens his weight on me and starts feeling for something before he reaches down and brings up the empty beer bottle that’s lying beside him. “You better cooperate or it’ll get messy, bitch.”

“Fuck you!” I can finally move my arms and try to scratch his neck and face, without luck.

The guy squeezes my throat painfully hard while I struggle against him. Then, all of a sudden, he brings the bottle close to my eye.

I stop moving my head, unable to anticipate his intent before he raises his arm, smashing the bottle against the pavement, and I scream bloody murder when shards of glass fly into the air with Noah nearby.

“NO!!!” I shout, sheer agony coursing through my veins as my only concern is my son.

Abruptly, I hear a thud before the man drops onto me and the air deflates from my chest. Biting through my pain, I heave him off me, but he’s already being dragged away. I blink to distinguish what’s happening, and I witness someone in an expensive black suit hurling my attacker against a stack of crates. The wood cracks and splinters beneath the body as I leap up and dig into my purse to get my gun, extending my arms when the second man spins around and aiming my pistol at his forehead.

“Stay there!” I roar like a caged animal right before I recognize his ashy-grey eyes as Noah’s wails invade my eardrums.

Holding up his palms in surrender, he says, “You know me. We have to help your son!” Then he glances at Noah in the car seat behind me.

I swing around and the tremble in my knees becomes a shake when I see blood.