THE WAITRESS YANKED A MAFIA BOSS UNDER A DINER TABLE SECONDS BEFORE A BULLET TORE THROUGH HIS BOOTH—BUT SAVING DIMITRI VULOV’S LIFE MADE HER THE ONE WEAKNESS HIS ENEMIES COULD NOT WAIT TO USE

I woke up at seven in the morning to the sound of seagulls crying outside the high glass windows.

The storm had cleared, leaving a pale, brilliant blue sky over the dark waters of Long Island Sound.

I sat up on the silk sheets, my body aching from the tension of the night before. On the bedside table sat a silver tray with fresh tea, warm pastries, and a brand-new iPhone in a sleek black case.

Beside the phone was a handwritten note in dark, elegant ink:

Your new security contact is programmed. Do not leave the third floor without Anton.

— D.V.

I picked up the phone. It was already activated.

I walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the grounds below.

Four armed guards in black suits walked the perimeter fences with German Shepherds. Near the long driveway, three black SUVs were idling, their drivers standing near the hoods, checking automatic rifles.

It was a palace, but it was also a fortress under siege.

A knock sounded at the door.

"Elena?" a deep, rough voice called out.

I walked over and opened it slightly.

Standing in the hallway was Anton—a broad, scarred man in his late forty with graying hair and a sharp, disciplined posture. He was the chief of Dimitri's personal security detail.

"Good morning, Miss Elena," Anton said respectfully, bowing his head slightly. "Mr. Vulov has departed for Midtown for an emergency council meeting with the family captains. He instructed me to ensure you have everything you require."

"When will he be back?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.