THE DRIVE TO THE RENTAL HOUSE

The world dropped out from under me.

“Leo,” I gasped, the air completely leaving my lungs.

I ran for the service doors, my bad knee buckling. I hit the floor hard, but I didn’t feel the pain. I scrambled up, terrified, blind with panic.

Gabriel caught my shoulders.

“Erin, stop. Breathe.”

“She sent someone to my son! Let me go!” I fought against his grip, but his hands were steady and unyielding.

“I’m driving you,” Gabriel said, pulling me toward the garage. “Martin, lock down the estate. Nobody gets in or out.”

We tore through the rainy streets of Philadelphia. I dialed my sister’s number over and over, my hands shaking so violently I kept dropping the phone.

Voicemail.

“She’s not answering,” I sobbed, staring at the dark road. “Gabriel, if someone hurts him—”

“Nobody is going to hurt him,” Gabriel said, his jaw clamped tight. He pushed the SUV to eighty miles an hour.

My sister’s apartment was in a rundown complex on the east side. The parking lot was poorly lit.

Gabriel parked on the curb. He reached into the center console and pulled out a handgun. He didn’t hesitate; he racked the slide and slipped it into his waistband under his jacket.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered.

We ran up three flights of concrete stairs.

The door to Apartment 3B was slightly ajar.

My heart stopped.

I pushed past Gabriel and burst into the apartment. “Leo! Sarah!”

The living room was quiet. The television was on, playing a cartoon softly.

On the worn fabric couch sat my nine-year-old son, Leo. He was unharmed. He was eating a bowl of cereal, swinging his legs.

Sitting in the armchair across from him was a man in a tailored gray suit.

Gabriel raised his weapon instantly, aiming right at the man’s chest.

“Don’t move,” Gabriel ordered.

The man slowly raised his hands, setting a teacup carefully on the side table. He was older, perhaps in his sixties, with silver hair and cold, calculating eyes.

“Put the gun down, Gabriel,” the man said smoothly. “If I wanted to hurt the boy, I wouldn’t be sitting here drinking chamomile.”

Gabriel didn’t lower the weapon. “Victor. What the hell are you doing here?”

I ran to the couch and pulled Leo into my arms, burying my face in his hair. He smelled like milk and cheap shampoo. He was safe.

“Mom, who is that guy?” Leo asked, confused by the gun.

“Go to your aunt’s room, Leo. Now,” I whispered.

Leo scrambled off the couch and ran down the hall. I stood between the hallway and the man named Victor.

“Sloane called me,” Victor said, ignoring my panic and focusing entirely on Gabriel. “She said you were finally figuring out what happened at the marina fifteen years ago. She promised to give me the airport locker ticket if I sent some men to secure this apartment.”

“You’re my biggest competitor, Victor,” Gabriel said, his voice lethal. “Why would Sloane offer you leverage over me?”

“Because Sloane is my daughter,” Victor said calmly.

The room fell silent.

Gabriel’s grip on the gun tightened. “Your daughter’s name is Elena.”

“Elena changed her name to Sloane Whitaker when she moved to Philadelphia seven years ago,” Victor corrected. “She was supposed to marry you, merge our freight companies, and secure my retirement. But she got sloppy.”

Victor stood up slowly.

“She failed, Gabriel. And because she failed, I am cutting her loose.” Victor reached into his suit pocket. Gabriel tensed, but Victor only pulled out a wooden rosary.

He tossed it onto the coffee table.

“My daughter was at the marina the night your wife died,” Victor said. “She was nineteen. She was trying to impress me by spying on your wife’s meetings. But she didn’t kill her.”

Gabriel stared at the rosary.

“That belonged to my wife,” Gabriel whispered.

“Yes,” Victor said. “Sloane found it on the dock, right next to the boat. Along with something else.”