I stared at my phone until the screen timed out, leaving me in total darkness. The voice—smooth, cold, and utterly devoid of the gravelly warmth I had come to associate with Asher—echoed in my ears like a death knell.
Desperation clawed at my throat. With trembling fingers, I redialed the number. I needed to hear it again. I needed to demand an answer. But this time, there was no ringing. No cold voice. The line was completely dead, as if the connection had never existed at all.
I became desperately shaken, my mind spiraling toward the one person who mattered. My son.
If Asher was really dead—if he had been taken down by the Mascots or some shadow faction lurking in the wings—then the rules of engagement had changed. In the Mafia world, bloodlines were targets. If they ever discovered that Leo was Asher's heir, his life wouldn't be worth the air he breathed.
