Nothing Left To Save

I had just climbed into the armored SUV leaving the Moretti estate when the gatekeeper hurried after me with a black encrypted phone in his hand.

"Mrs. Westmore, Don Moretti asked me to give you this."

I took it. One unread message glowed on the screen.

[Selena only had a scare. I'll come home tomorrow. Don't overthink it.]

I stared at it for two seconds, popped out the SIM card, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the rain outside the window.

The next day, I had just reached the abandoned shipyard in North Harbor when encrypted messages started hitting my backup phone one after another.

[Vivian, where are you?]

[Why aren't you home? Where the hell did you go this late?]

[Answer me. Don't make me send men all over the city looking for you.]

The last one was exactly his style: soft on the surface, arrogant underneath.

[Your family survives under my protection. Don't test my patience.]

I didn't answer.

After countless messages sank without a reply, my husband finally drove to the old Westmore grounds at North Harbor. He knew that if anything was left of my family, I would be there.

But when Damon pushed through the broken iron gate, he found no guards, no household staff, and no Westmore men waiting for orders.

The old house stood hollow in the rain. Its windows were blown out, the front steps were black with soot, and the air still carried the bitter smell of smoke and gunpowder.

Damon grabbed a passing harbor guard by the sleeve. "Where are the Westmores?"

The guard looked at him as if he should already know. "Gone. The family was hit two nights ago. Whoever came for them knew exactly when Moretti protection would be pulled from the harbor."

"Miss Westmore came back before dawn," the guard added. "She took the black-gold signet, a few boxes of ledgers, and whatever papers survived the fire."

"After that, she left. And no one has seen her since."

Only then did Damon remember that I had called him ninety-nine times on the night North Harbor exploded.

That evening, someone set fire to the warehouse at the old Westmore pier. My father, Arthur Westmore, was the last one out. He had gone back for the family bookkeeper and two children trapped inside, and the collapsing steel beam caught him across the chest. Shrapnel tore through him before anyone could pull him free.

By the time they carried him into St. Ambrose, his breathing was already thin.

The doctor on duty came out with blood on both hands and told me the trauma team had to move now.

But North Harbor had been locked down under Moretti orders. Without Damon's approval, ambulances couldn't get through, outside surgeons couldn't pass the checkpoints, and no helicopter could land on the roof. The Moretti private emergency unit answered to him and him alone.

I stood in the hallway and called him again and again with shaking fingers.

The first