Chapter 1

"You're moving Tabitha Cross into the main compound?" Underboss Orson asked, his ice cube clinking against the glass inside the private suite.

"What about Naomi? She's been your wife for eight years, Garrett."

The double doors of the Whitmore Syndicate's private suite were pulled shut, but the low voices inside carried straight into the hallway.

"Tabitha stays at the compound," Garrett replied.

His voice was flat, carrying the lazy authority of a man who'd never been questioned in his life.

"Thirteen years ago, when a rival crew ambushed me in the dark, she dragged me out of the fire. She saved my life. I swore I'd protect her forever."

"And Naomi?" Orson pressed.

"Naomi understands what a blood debt means," Garrett said, taking a slow pull from his glass.

"She has my name, my home, and my protection. Tabitha has none of those. She gets the East Suite next to mine and a seat at the family table. Naomi may hate it, but family debts are not optional."

He paused, his tone dropping into a quiet reverie.

"That girl kept me alive when I was bleeding out on the cold stone. She put her silver saint in my hand and kept repeating, 'Hold the silver saint, stay awake, and live.' I keep my promises."

Outside the door, Naomi's hand stopped on the brass handle.

Hold the silver saint, stay awake, and live.

Those were the exact words she had whispered into the ear of a bleeding seventeen-year-old boy in a dark alley thirteen years ago.

A stray bullet had shattered her silver St. Christopher medal when she threw her body over his, splitting the metal right down the middle.

She had pressed the jagged piece into his palm before running into the storm to draw the gunmen away—taking a second bullet deep into her left shoulder blade.

On their wedding night, Garrett had kissed that exact scar and promised no one would ever hurt her again.

Neither of them had known she carried it because of him.

Through the narrow crack in the door, she saw Tabitha sitting beside Garrett on the leather sofa in a sleek silk dress.

Hanging around Tabitha's neck was that exact half of the silver medal.

When Tabitha had appeared three weeks ago, recited those exact words, and named the medal, Garrett had taken the silver half he had guarded for thirteen years and fastened it around her neck with his own hands.

College.

The memory hit Naomi with a wave of cold nausea.

During their sophomore year, Tabitha had been her roommate. Naomi used to keep a journal, writing down every detail of that night across several pages.

After Tabitha abruptly packed her bags and moved out, the first page went missing—the page detailing the date, Garrett's wounds, the silver medal, and the words Naomi used to keep him conscious.

Tabitha hadn't saved Garrett.

She had stolen Naomi's story—and walked back into his life wearing her silver saint.

Eight years of marriage.

Eight years of building a home with a man who used to trace that scar in the dark, only to find out his heart belonged to a lie.

The ache in her chest cut far deeper than the bullet she had taken for him.

Naomi smoothed her wool coat, lifted her chin, and pushed the doors open.

The conversation snapped shut.

Garrett leaned back on the sofa, giving her a faint, dismissive smile as he motioned for her to come in.

"Come here," he said. "Since you were listening, it saves me a conversation. You'll meet Tabitha properly tonight."

Naomi stood her ground. "I heard everything."

"Don't take it personally, Naomi," Orson put in, swirling his drink. "Garrett is just paying off an old debt. You'll still be Mrs. Whitmore."

Naomi didn't give Orson a glance.

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a neat stack of papers, and dropped them onto the glass coffee table.

Three days ago, when Garrett ordered the East Suite cleared out for Tabitha without offering a single word of explanation, Naomi had quietly called a lawyer.

The signed petition had been sitting in her bag ever since.

The dark ink on the cover page was bold: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Garrett's relaxed shoulders went rigid. "What is this?"

"My signed divorce papers," Naomi said.

"I'm taking full custody of Jude. You can keep the compound, the Syndicate, and your savior."

Garrett leaned forward, his brows pulling together.

"You realize what happens when you step outside these gates, Naomi. Without my name, my men, and my money, you won't last a week."

Naomi looked at him—really looked at him—seeing the blind, arrogant boy hiding behind the mob boss facade.

"I'd rather face the dark alone," she said, "than spend another night in bed with a man who can't tell a savior from a thief."