580 A bleeding stranger shoved a gun beneath my chin and ordered me to leave him and his infant twins to die in a dark Boston alley. He swore the police were hunting him, but by sunrise I would learn the truth—the wounded man I saved wasn't fleeing the city's most powerful empire. He was the one who ruled it.

The walk to Beacon Street felt like dragging a mountain through a swamp. Every muscle in my body screamed in agony. The rain lashed down in sheets, plastering my hair to my face, while the twins stayed remarkably quiet against my chest, as though they understood the mortal peril we were in.

When we finally reached the sleek, obsidian glass tower at 402 Beacon Street, my arms were completely numb.

I pressed the platinum key fob against the service entrance reader. The heavy steel door clicked open with a soft, expensive hiss. I dragged Daniel across the threshold just as a police cruiser rounded the corner of the block, its blue lights sweeping across the pavement outside.

I pulled the door shut, locking it manually from the inside, and stumbled toward the private freight elevator.

Fourth floor. Unit 402.

The elevator ride was agonizingly slow. When the doors slid open, I wasn't met with a cramped apartment, but a sprawling, minimalist penthouse that smelled of aged leather, rain, and expensive scotch. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking, panoramic view of the storm-drenched Boston skyline.

I dumped Daniel onto a massive white leather sofa—wincing as his blood stained the pristine upholstery—and immediately unclipped the babies from my chest.

They were dry, warm, and remarkably healthy, despite the chaos. I laid them down gently on a plush rug near the fireplace, using sofa cushions to form a safe barrier.

Then I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, my hands covered in blood.

What have I gotten myself into?

"Water," a raspy voice murmured from the sofa.

I jumped, scrambling back.

Daniel was awake, propped up on one elbow, clutching his side where the bullet had torn through his flesh. His face was ghostly pale, but those icy blue eyes were entirely lucid.

"You're bleeding all over a ten-thousand-dollar couch," I snapped, my voice shaking with a mix of terror and adrenaline.

A faint, humorless smile touched his lips. "It's leather. It wipes clean. Unlike my family's reputation." He winced, shifting his weight. "You brought us here. You didn't run. Why?"

"Because I know what it’s like to be hunted," I whispered, pulling my knees up to my chest. "When I was seven, my foster father locked me in a basement for three days because I broke a plate. Nobody came. Nobody cared. When I saw you in that alley holding those babies... I saw myself. I wasn't going to let anyone throw them away."