At my two sons’ funeral, my wealthy mother-in-law slapped me in front of everyone and whispered: “You’re next.”

I didn't run. I walked calmly to my car, my hand slipping into my coat pocket to grip the cold steel of the small, registered handgun I had purchased three weeks ago.

The black SUV didn't move as I pulled out of the lot, but it merged seamlessly into traffic exactly three cars behind me.

The Sokolovs knew.

They knew Victoria was locked in a cage, unable to manage their money. They knew the police were digging into her finances, and they were terrified the $50 million was vulnerable. They were monitoring everyone connected to the Whitmore empire, looking for the offshore encryption keys.

I took three aggressive detours, running a yellow light and weaving through a residential neighborhood until I finally lost the tail.

When I arrived at my rental house, I immediately checked the security cameras I had installed. The perimeter was clear. Emma was inside, happily watching a cartoon with my sister.

I locked the deadbolts and closed the blinds.

My phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. It was an unknown number.

I answered it, remaining completely silent.

"Mrs. Whitmore," a heavy, thickly accented voice murmured through the speaker. "You have been a very busy woman. Taking trips to Maine in the winter is bad for your health."

My breath hitched. They had tracked me to the summer estate.

"I don't know who you are," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady.

"You know exactly who I am, Claire," the voice chuckled darkly. "Your mother-in-law is currently unable to fulfill her contractual obligations. We believe you acquired something that belongs to us. We would like it back."

"I don't have your money," I lied.