For eighty-nine days, the most feared man in Boston never opened his eyes—and somehow, I became the only person who spoke to him like he could still hear me. Then one stormy night, after I finished reading beside his bed and whispered, “Stay,” something happened that made every monitor in the ICU change at once. At 3:17 a.m., Mercy West Medical Center felt colder than usual. Rain streaked down the ICU windows, machines clicked in steady rhythms, and the fluorescent lights made everyone look more exhausted than they already were. My patient in room 412 had been unconscious for almost three months.

“Go! Down the stairs!” I hissed, pushing Lily and Martha into the dark, damp stairwell of the cellar.

I pulled the heavy oak door shut behind us, locking the deadbolt just as heavy footsteps thudded into the hallway above. We didn't have flashlights. The darkness was absolute, smelling of mildew and old earth.

“Hold my hand, Lily,” I whispered. Her small fingers gripped mine like a vice. She didn't cry. The fact that a six-year-old knew how to be this quiet in the dark broke my heart more than if she had screamed.

“This way,” Martha breathed, guiding us by the wall.

Above us, the deadbolt rattled. Then, the terrifying sound of a gunshot blasted through the wood. Wood splinters rained down on the stairs.

“They’re shooting the lock. Run!” Martha urged.

We stumbled through the blackness. My shins scraped against discarded boxes, but the adrenaline masked the pain. We reached a heavy iron grate at the far end of the cellar. Martha fumbled with the keys in the dark.

Click. Clack.

The grate swung open just as the basement door at the top of the stairs burst open, spilling flashlight beams down into the dark.

“Check the corners!” a man yelled.

We scrambled into the tunnel, pulling the grate shut behind us. It was an old bootlegger tunnel from the prohibition era, barely tall enough for me to stand. We ran blindly, the sounds of our pursuers muffled by the thick stone walls.

After what felt like hours, we reached a metal ladder leading up to a street grate. Rain poured down through the slots, hitting my face. I pushed the grate open with all my strength, and we climbed out onto a deserted alleyway, blocks away from the church.

We were soaked, freezing, and terrified.

I took them to the only place I could think of—my small, third-floor apartment in South Boston. It wasn't safe, but it was shelter.

Once inside, I locked the door, pulled the blinds tight, and turned on a single lamp. Martha collapsed onto the sofa, coughing heavily. Lily sat beside her, hugging her stuffed rabbit.

“Are we safe now?” Lily asked quietly.

“For tonight, sweetie,” I said, bringing them blankets.

Lily reached into her pocket and pulled out the wooden rosary I had seen in her backpack. She held it out to me.

“Daddy said to give this to the angel.”

I took the rosary. It looked ordinary, just carved wooden beads on a string. But as I ran my fingers over the heavy wooden cross, I felt a seam. I twisted the top of the cross. It clicked and unscrewed.

Inside the hollowed-out cross was a tiny micro-SD card.

“The ledgers,” Martha gasped, looking at the card. “Silas’s entire money-laundering operation. The proof that Dominic was working with the Feds. If Silas gets that, Dominic dies.”

I stared at the tiny piece of plastic. It held the power to destroy an empire.

“I have to go back to the hospital,” I said, a terrible realization dawning on me. “If Silas knows we escaped, he knows we have the files. He’s going to take his anger out on Dominic.”

Martha grabbed my wrist. “Clara, no! You’ll be killed.”

“He protected you. He protected Lily,” I said fiercely. “I’m not leaving him alone in that bed.”

I left them with strict instructions not to open the door for anyone, locked my apartment, and raced back to Mercy West.

The hospital was eerily quiet. The storm had worsened outside. I badged into the ICU, my heart in my throat. I approached Room 412.

The guards were gone.

I pushed the door open.

The bed was empty. The monitors were flatlined. The IV poles were knocked over, and there were drops of fresh blood on the crisp white sheets.

Dominic was gone.

Panic seized my chest. I fell to my knees, searching for any clue. And there, glinting beneath the edge of the bed, was a small, silver object.

I picked it up. It was a customized silver cufflink, etched with a crest.