THE MAFIA BOSS HIRED TWELVE INTERPRETERS—THEN THE CLEANING LADY CORRECTED THEM IN EIGHT LANGUAGES “That's not what he said.” The cleaning lady's quiet voice stopped the entire boardroom, and Dominic Rossy slowly turned toward the woman everyone had ignored for the last five hours. Mave still held a wet sponge in one hand when she added, “He said he'll burn your warehouse with your brother inside unless you pay twenty percent more.” At 2:15 a.m., silence became more frightening than shouting. Mave had spent most of the night on her knees beside a handwoven Persian rug, scrubbing coffee stains while twelve professional interpreters attempted to keep Dominic's negotiation from collapsing. Her knees ached after six hours of a double shift. Her faded navy smock smelled of ammonia, and the plastic bucket beside her contained water that had turned an unpleasant gray. Nobody had asked her name.

The blinking red light on my son’s chest reflected in the puddles of the pier.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

It was a slow, rhythmic pulse that synced perfectly with the terror hammering in my own chest.

Leo stood frozen, tears streaming down his pale cheeks, clutching the edges of his yellow raincoat. He was too terrified to even sob.

“Dominic,” I choked out, grabbing his arm, my knees threatening to give way. “He has a bomb on him.”

Dominic pulled me behind the rust-covered edge of a shipping container, out of the floodlight's glare. His face was carved out of stone, but his jaw muscle leaped.

“It’s a proximity trigger,” Dominic whispered, his eyes scanning the setup.

Gregory stood twenty feet away from Leo, holding a heavy detonator in his massive hand. Three armed guards flanked the area.

“Why?” I asked, desperation clawing at my throat. “Why put it on a child?”

“Because of the container,” Dominic said softly, pointing to the massive steel box Leo was standing in front of.

I looked closer.

The doors of the shipping container weren't secured by a padlock. They were secured by a sophisticated biometric scanner, hardwired into the metal.

“Tomas designed that lock,” Dominic explained. “It’s keyed to his DNA. Since Tomas is dead, the only person on earth whose biometrics are close enough to open it… is his son.”

The answer was horrifying. Gregory hadn't kidnapped Leo just for leverage. He needed Leo to open the container.

But the larger mystery tore at my mind. If the master ledger was on the microchip in my pocket, what was inside that massive container?

“We have to get the guards away,” Dominic said, pulling the tactical radio from his belt. He handed it to me. “Now, Mave.”

I wiped my eyes. I took a deep breath, pushing down the mother, pushing down the frightened cleaner. I channeled every hour I had spent scrubbing floors, listening to men who thought I was deaf and stupid.

I pressed the transmit button.

I spoke in harsh, frantic Romani, mimicking the cadence of the guard I had heard Gregory screaming at earlier.

“North gate! The police are breaching the north gate! They have heavily armed tactical units! Need backup immediately!”

Static crackled over the radio.

Then, one of Gregory’s guards down by the floodlight reached for his earpiece. He yelled something to the others.

Two of the three guards immediately abandoned their posts, sprinting into the darkness toward the north end of the pier.

It worked.

Only one guard remained with Gregory.

“Stay here,” Dominic ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

Before I could protest, Dominic stepped out from behind the shipping container, walking directly into the glare of the floodlight.

He didn't raise his rifle. He let it hang loosely on its sling.

“Gregory!” Dominic’s voice boomed across the wet asphalt.

Gregory spun around, raising the detonator. The remaining guard leveled his weapon at Dominic.

“Ah, Dominic,” Gregory laughed, though his eyes were wary. “You came to die for the maid.”

“I came to make a trade,” Dominic said, walking slowly forward, his hands empty.

“I have the boy,” Gregory sneered. “I need nothing from you.”

“You need the key to bypass the secondary lock,” Dominic lied flawlessly. He held up his hand.

Dangling from his fingers was the antique bronze key we had taken from Charles.

Gregory’s eyes locked onto it. The greed was instantaneous.

“Bring it to me,” Gregory commanded.

“Let the boy walk toward me, and I’ll toss it to you,” Dominic countered.

Gregory smiled. “You think I am a fool? The boy stays. You bring it.”

Dominic took another step.

That was when I saw it.

Tucked into the back of Dominic’s waistband, completely hidden from Gregory’s view, was a secondary, suppressed pistol. He was trying to get close enough to take a clean headshot before Gregory could press the detonator.

But the guard beside Gregory saw the shift in Dominic’s weight.

“He’s armed!” the guard shouted in Russian.

The guard raised his rifle to fire.

I didn't think. I couldn't let the man who was risking everything for my son die.

I stepped out from the shadows, raising the heavy Kevlar vest, and screamed the one phrase in Chechen that I knew would stop Gregory in his tracks.

“I have the microchip!” I yelled, holding the tiny black square high in the air.

Gregory froze.

The guard hesitated.

And in that split second of confusion, Dominic moved.

He didn't draw his gun. He threw the heavy bronze key directly at the guard's face.

The metal struck the guard’s eye with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, dropping his rifle.

Dominic closed the distance, tackling Gregory to the wet asphalt.