The billionaire’s wife saw the shooter before anyone else did.

The blood in the bathroom sink was still tacky, dark crimson pooling against the porcelain edge. Beside it lay the simple gold band Gabriel had bought three years ago—a cheap placeholder for a contract marriage that was never supposed to involve blood, bullet holes, or betrayal.

Gabriel’s fingers trembled slightly as he unfolded the piece of heavy cream stationery. The handwriting was neat, sharp, and unmistakably Mara’s.

If you are reading this, Gabriel, I am either dead or hiding from the man you trust most.

Gabriel’s chest seized. He leaned against the marble counter, his grey eyes burning as he devoured every word.

Our marriage was a business arrangement. I knew why you chose me. I was the quiet, curvy daughter of an indebted shipping clerk—unremarkable, easily overlooked, and unlikely to draw the eyes of your enemies. You needed a fake wife to satisfy your father’s council, and I needed my brother’s medical bills paid. It was simple.

What you didn't know is that I’ve spent three years watching your back.

Four months ago, I found an encrypted receiver hidden inside the study clock. Tomas wasn't just managing your security, Gabriel. He was selling your route manifests to the Valenti family. He orchestrated the hit on your mother’s convoy last spring. And tonight, at the hospital gala, the target wasn't your mother. It wasn't you.

It was both of you.

Tomas knew that if you both died, the syndicate council would fall under his control. I tried to get proof, but he realized I was watching him. He fired the shot from the mezzanine tonight, intending to take you down first. I couldn't let him.

I have taken the drive containing his ledger. His men extracted me from the emergency corridor before your doctors could stabilize my wound. I managed to break away in the parking garage, but I am losing blood fast. I am leaving my ring so Tomas thinks I’ve stripped away my connection to you.

Do not trust the security detail at the docks. Do not trust Tomas.

I am sorry I couldn't be the proper wife you deserved. Protect your mother.

— Mara

Gabriel folded the paper so tightly the edges tore against his knuckles. A raw, terrifying roar ripped from his throat, echoing off the empty apartment walls. He slammed his fist into the bathroom mirror, shattering the glass into a thousand glittering shards.

For three years, he had treated Mara Rossi like a ghost in his own home. He had assumed she was shy, soft, and content with her quiet life of reading in the library and tending to the estate’s gardens. People in his inner circle had mocked her behind her back—calling her the "chubby placeholder," the "plain wife" who didn't fit the glamorous, lethal mold of a mafia queen.

And all the while, she had been standing in the shadows, silently shielding him from a viper living under his own roof.

"Boss," Dominic, Gabriel's most loyal lieutenant, whispered from the doorway, his weapon drawn. "We swept the perimeter. Tomas just pulled two armory vans out of the main gate at the estate. He's moving toward the Brooklyn shipyards."

Gabriel turned around. The grief in his face vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated murder.

"Get the assault team," Gabriel commanded, his voice cold enough to freeze blood. "And Dominic?"