Fifty thousand dollars for three months of work sounded like salvation until I learned the job involved bathing, dressing, and rehabilitating a wheelchair-bound mob boss whose last three nurses had quit. I took it because losing my doctoral program terrified me more than any criminal ever could—but the first time I met Massimo Pascale, I realized the money was probably the least dangerous part of the arrangement.

The Commission did not wait twenty-four hours. They didn't even wait twelve.

At 2:00 AM, the perimeter alarms of the Pascale estate shrieked into the freezing night, cutting through the silence like a knife. I was in the master suite, shoving medical supplies, gauze, and coagulants into a duffel bag, when the first explosion rattled the windows. The sheer concussive force knocked several framed pictures off the walls, the glass shattering across the hardwood floor.

"They breached the main gate!" Massimo yelled, bursting into the bedroom. He was in full tactical gear—a black Kevlar vest strapped tightly over his chest, an assault rifle slung over his shoulder, and a customized 9mm strapped to his thigh.

He didn't look like a crime boss anymore; he looked like a soldier.

He grabbed a smaller, lighter bulletproof vest from the closet and practically threw it over my head, securing the Velcro straps with frantic, forceful movements. "We have to move to the tunnels. Now. They hit the generator—backup power is going to fail in three minutes."

As if on cue, the lights flickered and died, plunging the massive estate into absolute darkness, save for the eerie red glow of the emergency lights.

The sound of automatic gunfire echoed from the lower levels. Massimo’s guards were engaging the hit squad, but the sheer volume of incoming fire told me we were vastly outnumbered. Don Carmine had sent an army.

"Stay behind me. Keep a hand on my belt," Massimo ordered. He pulled a secondary handgun from his holster, racked the slide, and handed it to me. "Safety is off. Point and pull. If anyone who isn't Lorenzo comes through a door, you shoot them. Understand?"

I gripped the cold steel of the weapon, my hands trembling slightly, but my nod was firm. "Yes."

We moved out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder. We sprinted toward the east wing, heading for the concealed entrance to the subterranean escape tunnels that ran beneath the property.

Suddenly, the stairwell door burst open. Two men in tactical black gear, wearing night-vision goggles, spilled into the corridor.

Massimo didn't hesitate. He raised his rifle, firing a controlled burst that dropped the first man instantly. The second man dove behind a marble pillar, returning fire. Bullets shredded the antique paintings and plaster walls around us. Massimo shoved me hard into an alcove, shielding my body with his own as debris rained down on us.

"Covering fire!" Lorenzo’s voice roared from the opposite end of the hall. The deafening blast of a shotgun echoed, and the man behind the pillar went down in a spray of blood.

Lorenzo sprinted toward us, limping slightly, his face covered in soot and blood. "They have thirty men inside the house, Capo! We can't hold them. The tunnel is clear, but we have to go right now!"

Massimo grabbed my hand, dragging me toward the hidden panel in the library wall. He punched a code into the keypad, and the heavy bookcase swung open, revealing a dark, narrow concrete staircase descending into the earth.

"Go! Go!" Lorenzo yelled, providing cover fire as we plunged into the darkness.

The descent was a nightmare. The air in the tunnel was stale and freezing, smelling of mildew and old earth. We ran blindly, the only light coming from the small tactical flashlight mounted on Massimo’s rifle. My lungs burned, and my legs ached, but the sound of muffled explosions above ground kept my feet moving.

We ran for what felt like miles, emerging finally in the basement of an abandoned auto shop a mile outside the estate grounds. Lorenzo had a secondary getaway vehicle—a reinforced, unmarked grey van—waiting in the garage.

As we reached the vehicle, Lorenzo suddenly stumbled, dropping his shotgun. He collapsed against the side of the van, clutching his side. A dark, terrifying stain was rapidly expanding across his grey tactical shirt.

"Lorenzo!" I screamed, dropping my bag and rushing to his side.

Massimo caught his lieutenant before he hit the concrete, lowering him gently. "I'm hit, Capo," Lorenzo gasped, his face draining of color. "Caught one in the hallway... didn't want to slow you down."

"You stubborn bastard," Massimo swore, his hands pressing frantically against the wound.

My medical training overrode my panic. I ripped open the trauma bag, pulling out shears, gauze, and a pressure bandage. "Massimo, move!" I ordered. I cut away Lorenzo's shirt. The bullet had entered his right flank, just below the ribs. It was a through-and-through, but he was losing blood fast.

"I need pressure, right here!" I guided Massimo's hands back to the wound while I prepared a quick-clot sponge. I packed the wound, my hands slick with Lorenzo’s blood, wrapping the heavy bandage tight.

"He needs a hospital, Massimo. He needs a blood transfusion and a surgeon," I said, looking up.

"We can't go to a hospital," Massimo said, his jaw set in a hard, desperate line. "Carmine’s men will have them watched. And the FBI will arrest him the second he walks into an ER."

I looked at Lorenzo, who was fighting to keep his eyes open, and then at Massimo, whose empire was currently burning to the ground. We were trapped. We had survived the extraction, but the war was suffocating us.