My coworkers sent me into a private dining room to serve the most feared man in Chicago because they thought watching me fail would be funny. But the second I raised my hands and spoke to him in sign language, every smirk outside that door disappeared—because Salvatore Marquetti looked at me like I had just given him something his money and power had never been able to buy. My name is Tessa Cole. I was twenty-seven and working double shifts at one of the

The world shattered into static.

I didn’t hear Salvatore’s voice. I didn’t feel my feet hitting the concrete floor of the warehouse. I didn’t register the chaotic blur of the city rushing past the windows of Salvatore’s black SUV as his driver tore through the Chicago streets, running every red light from 18th Street to my apartment.

They’re taking Leo.

The words looped in my mind like a terrifying siren.

When the SUV slammed to a halt outside my building, I threw the door open before the vehicle had even completely stopped. I hit the pavement hard, scraping my knees, but I didn't feel the pain.

I sprinted into the lobby, ignoring the shouting concierge, and slammed my hand against the elevator button. It was too slow. I bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time up to the fourth floor.

My lungs were burning, tasting of copper and panic, as I burst into the hallway.

The door to my apartment was wide open.

The lock was splintered, pieces of cheap pine scattered across the threadbare hallway runner.

"Leo!" I screamed, lunging into the living room.

The apartment was wrecked. The sofa was overturned. My small bookshelf had been dragged away from the wall.

Mrs. Gable was sitting on the floor in the corner, clutching her knitting bag to her chest, trembling violently. A bruised, swelling cut marked her left cheek.

"Mrs. Gable!" I dropped to my knees beside her. "Where is he? Where is my brother?"

She looked at me, her eyes clouded with pure terror.

"They had badges, Tessa," she sobbed, her voice frail and broken. "They had badges and clipboards. They said the apartment was unfit. They said there was a warrant."

"Who?" I grabbed her shoulders, gently but desperately. "Who were they?"

"Three men," she cried. "They didn't look like social workers. They were so rough. Leo was screaming. He couldn't hear what they were saying, Tessa. He was so scared."

A sound tore out of my throat—a guttural, animalistic sound of pure agony. My baby brother. Surrounded by strangers, unable to hear them, violently dragged out of the only safe place he had ever known.

I stood up, the room spinning, ready to run back out the door, ready to tear the city apart with my bare hands.

I collided directly with a solid wall of dark fabric.

Salvatore caught me by the shoulders to keep me from falling. His eyes swept the destroyed apartment, taking in the splintered door, the overturned furniture, and the sobbing elderly woman on the floor.

His face transformed.

The calculated, stoic businessman vanished. In his place was the monster the city whispered about. His jaw locked, a muscle ticking violently beneath the scar on his cheek. His eyes went completely, terrifyingly cold.

"They took him," I sobbed, gripping the lapels of his coat, no longer caring who he was or what he was capable of. "Vance took him. You have to help me. Please, Salvatore, you have to find him."

Salvatore didn’t pull away. He looked down at me, his massive hands gently gripping my forearms.

"I will find him," he said, his voice a low, lethal rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I give you my word, Tessa. Richard Vance has signed his own death warrant."

He turned his head slightly, speaking to the massive, silver-haired man who had followed him into the apartment.

"Marcus."

The silver-haired man stepped forward. "Boss?"

"Call the Mayor," Salvatore ordered, his tone devoid of any emotion. "Tell him I need the license plates of every city vehicle that passed through this grid in the last twenty minutes. If he stalls, tell him I will release the photographs from his daughter's fundraiser."

Marcus nodded once, pulling out his phone and stepping into the hallway.

Salvatore turned back to me. "Pack a bag. You aren't staying here. It's not safe."

I shook my head frantically. "I can't leave! What if they bring him back? What if—"

"They aren't bringing him back, Tessa," Salvatore interrupted, his voice firm but surprisingly gentle. "Vance is using him as leverage. He knows I bought the restaurant. He knows I have the ledger. He took Leo to paralyze you, because he knows you are the only one who can testify about the forged signatures."

I stumbled backward, dropping onto the edge of the overturned sofa.

Vance. The polished, smiling billionaire who came into the restaurant every Friday, ordering three-hundred-dollar bottles of wine while I served him, wearing shoes with holes in the soles.

He had poisoned my brother. He had forged my name. And now, he had kidnapped him under the guise of the law.

"Pack," Salvatore repeated. "Five minutes. We are moving."

I didn't argue. I ran into Leo's room.

It was a disaster. His clothes were pulled from the small dresser. His bed was stripped.

But as I knelt to pick up a fallen stuffed bear, something caught my eye.

Slipped slightly under the edge of the radiator was a piece of thick, white cardstock.

I reached out and pulled it free.

It was a drawing. Leo loved to draw. But this wasn't one of his usual crayons-and-markers sketches of superheroes or animals.

It was a charcoal sketch, incredibly detailed for an eight-year-old.

It was a drawing of a woman.

She had long, dark hair, high cheekbones, and she was wearing a very specific, intricate necklace—a silver crescent moon wrapped around a small emerald.

I stared at the drawing, my heart pounding in my ears.

I knew this necklace.

I had seen it twice in the last four years.

Once, in a magazine article about Chicago's wealthy elite.

And once, in person.

I stood up, clutching the drawing, and ran back into the living room.

"Salvatore," I said, my voice shaking.

He turned away from the window, his phone in his hand.

I held up the drawing.

"Leo drew this," I said, my breath catching in my throat. "But he’s never met her."

Salvatore stepped forward. He looked at the drawing.

The color instantly drained from his face. He looked like he had been physically struck.

He reached out, his large hand trembling slightly as he took the paper from me.

"How?" Salvatore whispered, his voice cracking, the lethal facade completely shattering.

"I don't know," I said. "But that necklace... I served a woman wearing that necklace at the restaurant three years ago. She came in with Richard Vance."

Salvatore slowly looked up at me, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

"That's not just a woman," Salvatore said, his voice breaking. "That is my sister, Elena."