The scream tore from Mary’s throat before she could think. A crack split the night—louder than thunder, sharper than bone—and suddenly she was flying, William’s hands gripping her tight, yanking her off the bed and twisting their bodies in midair as glass exploded across the mattress.
They hit the floor. Her breath was crushed from her lungs by the weight of his body, but she didn’t feel pain—only the suffocating heat of panic and his arms locked tight around her, shielding every inch of her from the storm of falling shards.
“Don’t move,” he growled.
One arm stayed braced around her. The other reached under the pillow, came up fast with a gun in hand. In a flash he was up, stalking to the window, movements surgical, controlled, like he’d done this a hundred times. Wind curled through the shattered glass, curtains flapping like wings, but outside—the shooter was already gone. Nothing but the rustle of roses and the deep silence of someone who knew how to vanish without a trace.
Mary sat up slowly, still trembling, her heartbeat so loud she could barely hear herself speak. “Did you find Neil?”
William didn’t answer right away. His gun stayed raised, eyes still locked on the treeline, muscles coiled.
“I asked you,” she said again, louder now. “Did you find him?”
He finally turned. “No.”
She stared at him. “You think he’s dead?”
“Too early to say.”
“But someone sent his shirt to us,” she pressed. “Bloodied. Torn. That means something. Could it have been his own people?”
“The Vongola?” William’s jaw clenched. “I asked them. They claim they know nothing.”
“You believe them?”
“If they’d taken him out, they wouldn’t send it like this. The Vongola don’t hide their kills. If they execute one of their own, they make it public. They own it. Quiet means something else.”
Mary swallowed hard. “Then what is this?”
“A message,” William muttered. “But not one either of us understands yet.”
Before she could respond, he was suddenly in motion, crossing the room in three long strides, grabbing her wrist.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Your wing.”
“What?”
“You’re staying there from now on. I’m changing the codes.”
She resisted. “You can’t just lock me away—”
“I’m not arguing about this,” he snapped. “Someone just tried to kill you.”
She fought his grip, heels skidding against the floor. “You think locking me in a bedroom will stop a bullet?”
“It’ll buy me time. That’s all I need.”
“William—”
“You’re safest there.”
“No,” she said sharply, twisting free for half a second before he caught her again. “I’m not safe anywhere, and we both know it.”
He didn’t stop. Didn’t listen.
So she played her last card.
“Then let me help.”
That did it. Just outside her door, his hand froze on the keypad. Slowly, he turned to face her.
“I want to know what happened to Neil, he was nice to me,” she said. “I want to know why someone is sending us bloody shirts and firing shots through the windows. And I want to know where my father is.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted.
“You said I was your wife,” she went on, quietly now. “So let me act like one.”
“Don’t manipulate me, Mary.”
“I’m not. I’m surviving.”
He stepped closer, jaw tight, eyes sharp.
“I’m not asking you to trust me,” she said. “I’m asking for a chance. I’m already part of this whether I want to be or not. So either you let me in, or you’ll have to fight me and whoever’s coming next.”
The silence stretched between them like a taut string.
Then she added, voice steady, “For better or worse, right? Till death do us part.”
His grip loosened. The code panel blinked once, untouched.
“You get one chance,” he said finally.