Hiding His Twins From The Underboss

I saved a man bleeding out in the snow. He had no memory, so I called him Ben.

We lived in a cabin, fell in love, and married by firelight with no witnesses but the ghosts of my parents.

Then one day, he disappeared.

Two years later, he returned. Not as my husband, but as Bernard Logan, the ruthless Underboss of the city's most dangerous crime family.

And he didn't remember me.

He brought his cruel new fiancée to my clinic and treated me like a stranger.

When she threw my father’s antique music box into a cactus display, he watched as I tore my hands apart trying to save it.

He called our past a "drug-induced hallucination" and threatened to destroy me if I spoke up.

Worst of all, I found out I was pregnant.

He cornered me in the hospital room, his eyes cold and devoid of the warmth I used to know.

"Is it mine?"

I knew if I said yes, he would turn my child into a killer like him. Or his fiancée would ensure we never survived.

So I looked the love of my life in the eye and lied.

"No," I said. "It's not yours."

I signed his NDA, took his hush money, and vanished to Europe to raise my twins alone.

I thought I was free. I found a good man who actually loved me.

But three years later, at an art gallery in Zurich, the crowd parted.

Bernard was standing there, staring at me with a terrifying hunger.

He had found out the truth.

And he was ready to burn the world down to get us back.

Chapter 1

Addison POV

The patient file Dr. Miles slapped onto my desk carried a warning label in red ink, but the name printed underneath was the real lethal weapon: Evelin Bennett, the future wife of the man I buried in my heart two years ago.

I stared at the folder.

My chest felt like someone had swung a sledgehammer against my ribs.

"You have five minutes to prep, Addison," Dr. Miles said, checking his watch. "The Bennett family does not wait. And neither does the Logan crime family."

The name *Logan* sucked the oxygen out of the room.

I knew that name.

Everyone in the city knew that name.

Bernard Logan. The Butcher. The Underboss.

But to me, he was just Ben.

He was the man I had found bleeding out in the snow near my father's cabin two years ago.

He was the man with no memory who had learned to chop wood and fix my leaky roof.

He was the man I had married in a living room lit only by firelight, with no witnesses but the ghosts of my parents.

He was the man who went out for supplies one morning and never came back.

I thought the wolves had gotten him.

Or the winter.

I spent months searching the ravine, screaming his name until my throat bled.

I sold my