Rising From Ice: The Mafia Don's Regret

Seven years ago, my Mafia Underboss husband diverted our only rescue helicopter to his mistress.

He left our five-year-old son to freeze to death in my arms on a freezing mountain.

He believed I threw myself off the cliff with our boy's body that night.

But I crawled out of the ice, changed my face, and spent seven agonizing years becoming the underworld's most ruthless extraction specialist.

Tonight, Lucas—now the Don of the Regional Syndicate—stepped into my tactical outpost.

He didn't recognize the heavily scarred woman standing before him.

He threw a two-million-dollar contract on the table and threatened to slaughter my crew if I refused his command.

The mission was to climb a cartel-held death pass to save a trapped girl before her oxygen ran out.

That girl was his and his mistress's daughter—the very reason my son was left to die.

How could the man who callously sacrificed his own flesh and blood now play the desperate, loving father?

I stared at the arrogant Don and the fake tears of the mistress clinging to his arm, feeling the cold weight of my son's silver dog tag against my chest.

"The Lena you knew is dead," I said, pulling the tag out for him to see.

Today, I will drag him up that frozen peak, and he will finally pay his blood debt in the ice.

Chapter 1

Sierra POV

The heavy steel door of the outpost slammed shut behind Wayne.

He threw a thick mission file onto the metal table between us. The harsh fluorescent light caught the gold seal of the Syndicate Commission stamped on the cover.

I did not even look at it.

I was field-stripping my rifle, the scent of gun oil and cold steel a familiar anchor.

Wayne slammed his hand over the receiver.

He was my most trusted Capo, a man who had bled beside me in the underworld for six years. But right now, his eyes were wide with a raw panic.

"This is from the Commission," he breathed, the words tumbling out. "A priority extraction. Two million, and they're guaranteeing full immunity."

I pushed his hand away and finally glanced at the file.

The target was Lucy Falcone.

The man authorizing the contract was Lucas Falcone.

Seven years ago, my husband diverted our only rescue helicopter to his mistress.

He left our five-year-old son to freeze to death in my arms on a freezing mountain.

Now his name was imprinted on the highest directives of the Regional Syndicate. Politicians on the eastern seaboard learned to perspire when it was spoken; rival gangs paid for his territorial claims in blood.

I shoved the file from the table.

It struck the concrete floor, papers spilling across the grit.

"I would sooner stand before a Syndicate tribunal than accept this," I said, my voice devoid of inflection.

Wayne's spine seemed to collapse; his kneecaps hit the rough concrete with a dull, fleshy thud. He made no effort to rise, his oil-stained hands merely clutching at the fabric of my tactical trousers.

"Sierra," he pleaded, his voice thin with strain. "The target is in a communications bunker on Devil's Ridge."

That was a five-thousand-meter death pass, a frozen wasteland controlled by our rivals.

"The structure is crushed," he went on, his hands trembling. "She has less than twenty-four hours of oxygen left."

He looked up at me, his face a mask of desperation. "You are the only specialist left alive who can make that climb."

I racked the bolt of my rifle.

The sharp, metallic slide echoed in the chamber.

"Then let her suffocate," I replied.

The secure red telephone on the wall rang, a shrill, piercing sound.

It was a direct line to the Syndicate leadership.

Wayne stared at it as if it were a coiled serpent.

I walked over and picked up the receiver.

The voice on the other end was deep and resonant with the casual arrogance of a man who had never been disobeyed.

It was Lucas.

He did not know who I really was.

To him, I was Sierra Vance, a name whispered in the underworld, a specialist who retrieved men from places where they had already been counted among the dead.

"Two million," he stated, dispensing with any greeting. "Elevation to Capo status, and your choice of territory in the city. You will take the mission."

My fingers tightened on the plastic receiver until I felt it begin to fracture.

"No," I said.

I let a beat of silence pass. "Is the great Don Falcone discovering that coin has no currency in the ice?"

The line went dead for a long second. When his voice returned, it was a low, guttural threat.

"No one else can make the extraction. You refuse a Don's command, and I will bring the entire weight of the Family down upon this outpost."

I hung up the phone.

Wayne stood, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

"He'll strip you of everything for this," he warned.

I looked at the frozen window, seeing only the reflection of a face scored with old scars.

"Lucas owes me a debt of blood," I told Wayne, my voice barely a whisper. "His rank is meaningless."

The agonizing wait stretched into the small hours of the morning. Wayne, unable to bear the stillness, had retreated to the comms center to watch the radar for any sign of his daughter, Stella.

At two in the morning, the door burst open.

Wayne stumbled into the room, his face drained of all color.

His legs gave out from under him, and he crashed to the floor before me, his body shaking with such violence it seemed it might tear itself apart.

He choked on his own breath as he told me what Lucas had just done.

"He invoked the blood oath," Wayne sobbed, his hands twisting the hem of my trousers. "The Don's Command. He's had Stella reassigned... to the cartel border station at Outpost Zeta."

He had just lost all radio contact with her.

Outpost Zeta was a lawless kill-zone. A place where Syndicate soldiers were sent to disappear.

Lucas was using Stella as a pawn to force my hand.

I grabbed Wayne by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

"I will get Stella back," I promised, my eyes locked on his. "But I am not taking his mission."

"There is another way," I began.

Before I could explain, a low-frequency vibration traveled up through the concrete floor, shaking the very structure of the outpost. It grew into the percussive thrum of heavy rotor blades.

A black Syndicate chopper was settling onto our helipad.

I walked out into the biting wind, Wayne a step behind me.

The chopper doors slid open.

Don Lucas Falcone stepped out into the snow.

He was flanked by two heavily armed Soldiers.

Behind him, clinging to his expensive wool coat, was Sylvia Romano.

She was his former mistress, now the Syndicate's first lady.

Lucas surveyed our gritty, blood-stained outpost with an expression of open disgust.

He stopped a few feet away from me.

He still did not recognize the woman standing before him.

"You're the specialist?" he demanded.

I gave him a slow, cold nod.

He turned his attention to Wayne, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

"Your Stella has arrived safely at the border station," Lucas said. "For now."

Sylvia stepped forward, her face a carefully constructed mask of sorrow.

She reached out, her fingers aiming for my arm in a gesture of false solidarity.

"Please," she whined. "My Lucy is suffering so terribly."

I struck her hand away with the back of my own, recoiling as if from something diseased.

Lucas moved between us, his eyes flashing with a lethal anger.

He delivered his final ultimatum there in the swirling snow.

"You accept the mission now, or Wayne's daughter takes a long walk along the cartel border," he spat. "And I will have this entire outpost burned to the ground with everyone inside it."

Wayne let out a raw cry and charged.

The two Soldiers moved as one, driving their shoulders into his chest and forcing him down. His forehead struck the frozen ground, splitting the skin.

Blood began to pool around his face as he looked up and begged me one last time.

I stared at the repulsive arrogance of Lucas and the manufactured tears of Sylvia.

The cold weight of a silver chain pressed against my collarbone beneath my jacket.

I reached up and pulled out the dog tag.

The name engraved upon it glinted in the floodlights: Andy Falcone.

I took a step closer to the Don.

"I will not save the daughter of the man who murdered my son," I told him, my voice a blade in the wind.

Lucas went still. His eyes dropped to the tag, and his face slackened with the first stirrings of recognition.

I let him see the resolve in my eyes.

"Force me up that mountain, and I will sever your daughter's lifeline myself."