**“DON'T TELL THESE PEOPLE YOU USED TO CLEAN HOTEL ROOMS! THEY'RE HERE TO CELEBRATE A MORETTI, NOT HEAR ABOUT YOUR POOR LITTLE LIFE!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE HUMILIATED HIS 78-YEAR-OLD MOTHER AT HIS ENGAGEMENT DINNER—BUT WHEN THE MAID SAID, “SHE WORKED NIGHTS SO HE COULD BUILD HIS FIRST BUSINESS,” LUCA MORETTI SLOWLY PUT DOWN HIS GLASS.**

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy and terrifying.

I could barely hear the engine of the armored truck over the frantic pounding of my own heart. I was a housemaid, driving a stolen cash-in-transit truck down the Dan Ryan Expressway, negotiating with the highest echelon of the American mafia.

“Arthur Bellini’s shadow ledger is a myth,” the emissary finally said. His voice was smooth, cultured, but completely devoid of warmth. “A ghost story told by desperate men.”

“It’s not a myth,” I said, pressing the phone harder against my ear. “I’m looking at it right now. I know about the payoffs. I know Arthur has been buying judges to keep the Commission off his back in the Midwest.”

I threw out the only piece of leverage I had left, praying it was true.

“If Arthur Bellini executes Luca Moretti tonight, Arthur takes total control of Chicago. With this ledger, he won’t just ignore the Commission—he’ll be powerful enough to challenge you.”

Another long pause.

“Where are you, Miss Collins?” the emissary asked. The cultured tone had hardened into something far more dangerous.

“I’m ten minutes away from the Bellini estate,” I lied. I was at least twenty minutes out, but I needed him to move fast. “Meet me at the main gates. Have your men stand down Arthur’s guards. If I don’t see Luca Moretti standing outside alive when I pull up, I’m driving this truck straight to the FBI field office in the Loop.”

I hung up the phone before he could respond.

My hands were shaking so violently I almost lost control of the heavy steering wheel. I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Headlights flashed aggressively behind me.

A sleek, black SUV was weaving recklessly through the midnight traffic, gaining on the armored truck.

Matteo.

He must have stolen a car from the hotel valet. He wasn’t going to let the ledger—and his ticket to the throne—slip away.

I pushed the gas pedal to the floor, the massive diesel engine roaring in protest. The heavy truck wasn’t built for speed; it was built for defense. Matteo’s SUV effortlessly pulled alongside me on the driver’s side.

Through the bulletproof glass, I saw Matteo’s bloody, furious face. He rolled down his window, steering with one hand, and aimed his suppressed pistol at my tires.

BANG. BANG.

The heavy run-flat tires absorbed the bullets without blowing out, but the massive truck swerved violently. I fought the steering wheel, struggling to keep the ten-ton beast on the highway.

Matteo swerved closer, trying to ram the SUV against the side of the truck to force me off the road.

Metal screeched against metal, sending sparks flying into the dark night. The impact rattled my teeth, but the armored truck barely budged, while Matteo’s SUV bounced off the reinforced steel plating.

I didn’t have time for this. If I didn’t get to the estate, Arthur would kill Luca.

I looked ahead. The exit ramp for the wealthy North Shore suburbs was coming up fast.

I gripped the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and slammed my foot down on the heavy air brakes.

The armored truck violently decelerated, the massive tires screaming against the asphalt in a cloud of white smoke.

Matteo, expecting me to keep speeding toward the exit, shot past me in the SUV. He hit his own brakes frantically, trying to correct, but he was moving too fast.

His SUV fishtailed, spun out of control, and crashed violently into the concrete median barrier. The hood crumpled inward, the airbags deployed, and the vehicle skidded to a smoking halt in the center lane.

I didn’t stop to see if he was dead. I downshifted, accelerated past the wreckage, and tore down the exit ramp toward the Bellini estate.

Five minutes later, the massive wrought-iron gates of Arthur Bellini’s compound appeared in the headlights.

The scene outside the gates was a chaotic standoff.

Half a dozen of Arthur’s armed guards were standing near the guardhouse, their weapons raised. But they were entirely surrounded by fifteen heavily armed men wearing tailored black suits, holding assault rifles aimed directly at the guards' chests.

The Commission had arrived.

Standing in the center of the standoff, illuminated by the headlights of a pristine black Rolls-Royce, was an older, distinguished-looking man with silver hair and a sharp, calculating gaze. The emissary.

I hit the brakes, bringing the massive armored truck to a halt just fifty feet away from the gates.

I threw the truck in park, grabbed the black lockbox from the passenger seat, and unlocked the heavy steel door.

I stepped out into the cold night air, holding the lockbox tightly against my chest.

Every weapon in the driveway instantly swiveled toward me.

“Lower your weapons,” the emissary commanded calmly, without taking his eyes off me.

His men immediately lowered their rifles. Arthur’s guards, realizing they were vastly outgunned, hesitantly followed suit.

The emissary walked slowly toward me, stopping ten feet away. He looked at my messy uniform, the blood on my hands from helping Luca, and the heavy lockbox I was clinging to.

“You are not what I expected, Miss Collins,” the emissary said quietly.

“Where is Luca?” I demanded, my voice shaking but resolute.

The emissary tilted his head. “Arthur Bellini has barricaded himself inside the main house with Luca Moretti, Teresa Moretti, and the pregnant surrogate. My men are preparing to breach the doors.”

“No!” I yelled. “If you breach the doors, Arthur will execute them in the crossfire! He has nothing left to lose!”

“Arthur Bellini’s life is forfeit the moment I confirm the contents of that box,” the emissary said coldly. “He has operated outside the Commission’s authority for too long. Give me the ledger, and we will handle the rest.”

He held out his hand.

I looked at his open palm. I knew the moment I handed over the ledger, I had no leverage left. If the Commission decided Luca was too much trouble to keep alive, they would slaughter everyone in that house.

“I’m going in with you,” I said.

The emissary raised an eyebrow, amused by my audacity. “Excuse me?”

“You need Arthur to stand down without a firefight so you can get Luca out alive,” I said, my mind racing. “Arthur thinks he’s untouchable because he thinks the ledger is destroyed. If you walk in there with a dozen gunmen, he’ll panic and shoot. But if I walk in there alone, holding the one thing that can destroy him… he’ll stop to negotiate. That’s your window.”

The emissary stared at me for a long, calculating moment. He recognized the desperate truth in my plan.

“You are remarkably brave for a civilian,” the emissary said softly. “Or remarkably foolish. Very well. My men will stack on the side entrances. You walk through the front door. When Arthur is distracted by the ledger, we breach.”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my ears.

I turned and walked past the emissary, past the lowered weapons of the guards, and up the long, sweeping driveway toward the massive double doors of the Bellini mansion.

The front doors were unlocked. Arthur felt safe behind his walls.

I pushed the heavy mahogany doors open and stepped into the grand, opulent foyer.

It was silent. The house felt like a tomb.

“Arthur!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

A moment later, Arthur Bellini stepped out of the massive library at the end of the hall. He was holding a heavy revolver, his face twisted in a smug, victorious smile.

But when he saw me standing there, holding the black lockbox, his smile vanished instantly. The color drained from his face entirely.

“You,” Arthur gasped, taking a step backward. “How…?”

“I didn’t throw the ledger in the lake, Arthur,” I said, stepping forward, holding the box up high. “I threw a decoy. I had the real one all along.”

Before Arthur could process the shock, a voice called out from inside the library.

“Who is it, Arthur?”

My blood ran cold.

It was Vanessa’s voice.

Vanessa Bellini stepped out of the library, completely unharmed, wearing a silk robe and holding a glass of wine.

I stared at her in absolute horror.

Luca had told me Vanessa was dead. He said the FBI found her body in the boathouse bay.

Vanessa smiled, a cruel, mocking expression that sent a chill down my spine.

“You look surprised, Hannah,” Vanessa purred, taking a sip of her wine. “Did Luca really believe I’d let myself drown in my own bay? Oh, honey. The body they found in the water wasn’t me.”