Housemaid Clara Ellis placed a folded drawing beside mafia boss Vincent Hale’s dinner plate. Across the candlelit table, his seven-year-old daughter, Sophie, watched him reach for it.

The air in the guest suite seemed to freeze.

Marcus immediately swung his suppressed pistol toward Vincent, but the mafia boss moved with a lethal, terrifying speed that defied his severe head injury. Vincent lunged forward, swinging the heavy iron fireplace poker with bone-crushing force.

The iron struck Marcus’s wrist with a sickening crack.

Marcus roared in agony, dropping the pistol to the carpet. Before the underboss could recover, Vincent drove the butt of the poker directly into Marcus’s knee, forcing the massive man to collapse onto the floor beside Clara.

Vincent didn't stop. He grabbed Marcus by the collar of his tactical suit and hurled him backward into the shattered vanity mirror. Glass rained down around them as Marcus slumped against the wall, groaning, entirely incapacitated.

Vincent swayed slightly, dropping the iron poker. He pressed a hand to the bleeding wound on his temple, his breathing ragged.

“Mr. Hale!” Clara scrambled to her feet, ignoring the throbbing pain in her own jaw. She rushed to his side, catching his arm to steady him. “You’re bleeding heavily. We need to call the police.”

“No police,” Vincent grunted, leaning heavily against the wall. “Marcus owns half the precinct. If we call 911, his men will show up, not cops.”

He looked down at his treacherous underboss. Marcus was barely conscious, spitting blood onto the carpet.

“Ten years,” Vincent whispered, staring at the man he had treated like a brother. “You ate at my table. You held my daughter when she was born. And you were the one driving the car that killed my wife, weren't you?”

Marcus let out a wet, mocking laugh. “She wouldn't give it up, Vincent. The Morettis offered her five million for the ledger. But Elena was too loyal. So we took her out.”

“Where is Rosalind?” Vincent demanded, his voice trembling with a barely contained urge to end the man’s life right there.

“She’s gone,” Marcus coughed. “She knew I was coming to clean up loose ends. She took the Moretti money and ran. But she didn't get the ticket. And neither did you.”

Vincent reached into his blood-stained suit pocket and slowly pulled out the yellow baggage claim ticket.

Marcus’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. He looked at Clara, realizing she had lied to his face while looking down the barrel of a gun.

“You’re a dead man, Marcus,” Vincent said coldly. He turned to Clara. “Go to my study. Bottom right drawer of the desk. There are zip-ties and duct tape. Bring them to me.”

Clara didn't hesitate. She ran down the hall, retrieving the supplies, and helped Vincent bind Marcus securely to the heavy radiator in the corner of the room.

Vincent tore a strip of duct tape and slapped it over Marcus’s mouth, silencing the man’s threats.

“We have to leave,” Vincent said, wiping the blood from his eyes with his sleeve. “Marcus didn't come alone. His men will be waiting in the perimeter vehicles outside. When he doesn't check in, they will breach the house.”

“What about Sophie?” Clara asked, panic rising in her chest.

“Go wake her up. Pack a single bag. Tell her we’re playing a game,” Vincent ordered, his voice steadying. “I’ll get the keys to the armored SUV in the basement garage.”

Clara sprinted back up to the third floor. She burst into Sophie’s room and gently shook the little girl awake.

“Sophie, sweetie, wake up,” Clara whispered, keeping her tone light and bright despite the terror coursing through her veins.

Sophie rubbed her eyes sleepily. “Clara? Is it morning?”

“No, baby. Your daddy has a surprise. We’re going on a secret nighttime adventure,” Clara smiled, quickly stuffing a few changes of clothes and Sophie’s favorite stuffed rabbit into a backpack.

Sophie’s eyes lit up. “Like spies?”

“Exactly like spies,” Clara said, pulling a warm coat over the child’s pajamas. “But spies have to be super quiet, okay? No talking until we’re in the car.”

Sophie nodded seriously, mimicking zipping her lips.

Clara took her hand and they hurried down the back servant stairs to the basement garage. Vincent was waiting by a massive, black armored SUV. He had hastily bandaged his head with gauze from the emergency kit, but his face was deathly pale.

“Get in the back. Keep her on the floorboards,” Vincent instructed, throwing the car into gear the second Clara shut the heavy door.

The garage door rolled up, and Vincent gunned the engine. The heavy vehicle roared out into the rainy Chicago night.

As they sped down the long driveway, Clara peeked over the window ledge. Two black sedans were idling near the front gates. When they saw the SUV, their headlights flared, and they immediately peeled out in pursuit.

“They’re behind us!” Clara yelled over the roar of the engine.

“Hold on,” Vincent ground out.

He slammed his foot on the gas, the armored SUV tearing through the wrought-iron gates, snapping them like twigs. The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the city streets into slick, dangerous mirrors.

Vincent drove with a terrifying, calculated precision. He swerved through narrow alleyways, cutting off traffic, violently drifting the heavy vehicle around sharp corners. The two black sedans stayed relentlessly on their tail, exchanging suppressed gunfire that pinged harmlessly off the SUV’s bulletproof glass.

Sophie began to cry, burying her face in Clara’s lap.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s just the rain hitting the car,” Clara lied, stroking her hair with trembling hands.

Vincent checked his rearview mirror, his jaw clenched. “They’re pushing us toward the highway. If they box us in on the bridge, we’re dead.”

He suddenly wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, sending the SUV crashing through a chain-link fence into an abandoned industrial railyard. The heavy tires chewed through the mud and gravel as they plunged into absolute darkness, hiding behind a row of rusted shipping containers.

Vincent killed the engine and the headlights.

The silence inside the car was deafening, save for their ragged breathing and the sound of the rain drumming against the roof.

Through the rain-streaked windows, they watched the headlights of the two pursuit sedans sweep past the broken fence, completely missing them in the dark.

Vincent let out a long, shuddering breath, resting his head against the steering wheel.

“We lost them,” Clara whispered, her heart hammering.

“For now,” Vincent replied, pulling the yellow baggage claim ticket from his pocket. He stared at it in the dim light of the dashboard. “Whatever Elena hid in that locker... it’s worth ten million dollars to the Morettis. And it’s worth killing my entire family for.”

Clara looked at the ticket, then at the mafia boss holding it.

“Mr. Hale,” Clara said softly. “We can't go to the police. We can't go back to your house. What do we do?”