
The first picture of my unborn baby burned in a freezing Chicago kitchen while the child’s father—a mafia boss feared across the city—stood on television with another woman and announced their engagement. Two hours earlier, a doctor had told me our baby had a strong heartbeat; now I watched the ultrasound turn to ash as Declan Voss smiled beside the daughter of another crime family.
The black SUV remained across the street for nearly forty seconds before I convinced myself I was imagining things. I stood in the produce aisle of Whitaker’s Market…








