The Pregnant Maid Cried Alone Behind the Trash Cans — Unaware the Mafia Boss Heard Every Broken Word The sirens on Lakeshore Drive had already faded, but Willow Whitlock could still feel them beating inside her ribs.

The peace was shattered on a Tuesday in late January.

Chicago was paralyzed under a blinding blizzard that buried the avenues in three feet of snow. The city plows struggled to keep the main highways open, and visibility along Lakeshore Drive dropped to near zero.

Veto had been called away to an emergency meeting at the Union League Club—a sudden dispute regarding the dockworkers’ union that required his immediate presence. He had left eight armed guards at the mansion, along with Bruno.

Inside the third-floor suite, Willow was resting on the sofa when the lights flickered twice and died completely.

The backup generators hummed for three seconds, then cut out with a dull metallic thud from the basement.

Bruno instantly sprang up from the rug, a deep, guttural growl vibrating in his chest. His hackles stood straight up along his spine.

Silence hung heavy over the mansion, broken only by the muted sound of a muffled gunshot from the front foyer downstairs.

Willow scrambled off the sofa, clutching her seven-month belly. Her breath came in frantic, white puffs as the temperature in the room began to drop.

Enzo.

He had used the blizzard to cut the power lines and breach the perimeter gates.

The sound of footsteps came racing up the back service stairwell—the very stairs Willow had cleaned for months. A heavy thud shook the hallway door.

Bruno didn't wait. The massive dog launched himself at the oak door just as the brass handle jiggled. The wood groaned under the impact of heavy boots on the other side.

“Open the damn door, girl!” Enzo’s voice rasped through the wood, frantic and high-pitched. “The boss is stuck downtown in the snow! You’re coming with me to Cicero before Ferrante gets back!”

Willow backed toward the corner of the room, scanning the dark for any weapon. She grabbed a heavy bronze candleholder from the mantle.

The door burst open with a splintering crash.

Enzo Mancini stumbled in, his coat caked with snow, a snub-nosed revolver clutched in his gloved hand. Behind him stood two hired thugs carrying zip-ties.

Bruno attacked.

The mastiff struck the first thug with the force of a freight train, knocking the man flat onto his back and clamping onto his forearm. The man shrieked in agony as bones cracked under the dog’s jaws.

“Shoot the damn beast!” Enzo screamed, raising his revolver.

Willow didn’t think. Driven by pure maternal terror, she stepped forward and hurled the heavy bronze candleholder with all her strength. It struck Enzo squarely across the cheekbone, splitting his skin and knocking him sideways against the doorframe.

Enzo cursed, blood streaming down his face, and raised his gun toward Willow.

“You little bitch—”