Chapter 1 - The Iron Gates

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The wrought-iron gates of the Gallow estate stood exactly as I remembered them: imposing, cold, and heavily guarded. Beyond the black metal bars, the sprawling mansion was illuminated by hundreds of golden string lights. Valets in crisp black uniforms hurried to park a continuous stream of luxury vehicles. Tonight, Chicago’s most dangerous and powerful family was celebrating a wedding. Dominic Gallow, the man who had erased me from his life six years ago, was taking a new bride.
I had not come to ruin his celebration. I had come because of a magazine article crumpled inside my coat pocket. The society page had run a massive feature on the Gallow wedding, and buried in the third paragraph was the lie that had destroyed my twenties: Dominic Gallow’s first marriage dissolved amicably after the former Mrs. Gallow tragically proved unable to provide an heir to the syndicate’s bloodline.
For six long, grueling years, I had lived quietly with that sentence hanging over my head. I had rebuilt my life in a quiet suburb two towns away, entirely off the grid of the Gallow family’s extensive reach.
I had planned to do this alone. I intended to hand Dominic the leather folder, force him to look at the truth, and walk away forever. But my sister, Maya, had panicked when she found a blue school folder on my kitchen counter. Knowing how protective I was, she packed my four children into her SUV and followed my GPS location, terrified I was walking into a mafia stronghold without backup.
Now, I was standing outside the heavily fortified gates, gripping the cold iron, while my sister’s SUV idled on the curb.
A small, warm hand tugged at the hem of my wool coat.
“Mom?” my five-year-old daughter, Clare, whispered, her breath turning into white vapor in the freezing night air.
I looked down. Clare, Noah, Elise, and Henry were lined up beside me, bundled in heavy winter coats, staring in absolute awe at the palatial estate.
May you like
Noah, the oldest by three minutes, pointed a small, mitten-clad finger through the iron bars at the groom standing on the grand portico.
“Mom,” Noah asked, his dark eyes wide. “Is this where Dad lives?”