PART 1

The baby’s cries cut through the private jet like a knife.

Not the normal cries of a tired infant.

Painful.

I sat four rows back, gripping the armrests so hard my fingers hurt. My name is Nora Vance, and for three months, I had been trying to convince myself I wasn’t a mother anymore.

My husband was dead.

My twin boys were gone.

The nursery in my Chicago apartment remained untouched, sealed behind a door I couldn’t bring myself to open.

But my body hadn’t accepted any of it.

My body still produced milk.

And as the baby’s cries echoed through the cabin, a familiar ache spread through my chest.

“No,” I whispered to myself, closing my eyes. “Not my child. Not my problem.”

I tried to ignore it.

Then the crying changed.

Smaller.

The sound every mother fears.

My eyes snapped open.

That baby wasn’t just upset.

She was starving.

At the front of the aircraft sat Leo Mercer.

Everyone in America knew his name, though few dared say it out loud.

Business tycoon.

Crime kingpin.

Rumored mob boss.

The kind of man who could make people disappear with a phone call.

Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, he looked completely out of place doing the one thing he couldn’t seem to manage.

Holding his infant daughter.

His tattooed hands trembled as he tried again to feed her.

The bottle touched her lips.

She turned away immediately.

“No, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “Please.”

The baby cried weakly.

A flight attendant hovered nearby, looking terrified.

Three bodyguards sat farther back, pretending not to watch.

But everyone was watching.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

For the first time in his life, Leo Mercer looked powerless.

I recognized that look.

Grief.

Fear.

Helplessness.

The emotions money couldn’t fix.

Before I realized what I was doing, I was already standing.

Every head turned toward me.

My heart pounded.

One of the bodyguards instantly stepped into my path.