A tiny blue hand was the first thing I saw when I lifted the dumpster lid behind the Valente estate.

The intake tank at Cook County Jail smelled of industrial bleach, unwashed bodies, and decades of despair.

I sat on a metal bench inside a holding cell behind a thick wall of reinforced glass and steel bars, wearing a coarse orange jumpsuit that was two sizes too big. My cheek was a brilliant shade of purple-yellow where Adrian Valente’s hand had struck me, and my wrists were raw from the plastic zip-ties the county deputies had used during transport.

The other inmates—women with hard eyes, tattooed knuckles, and lives chewed up by the city's merciless gears—stared at me from across the dayroom.

"Hey, fresh meat," a woman with a jagged scar across her throat called out, leaning against the bars. "What are you in for? Armed robbery? Drug trafficking?"

I kept my eyes fixed on the gray linoleum floor, not answering.

"I heard about her," another inmate muttered, spitting onto the floor. "She's that kitchen girl from the Valente estate. The one who tried to off the boss's baby."

A murmur of visceral disgust rippled through the cell block. In Chicago, crossing the Valentes was a death sentence; crossing the Valentes by harming a child made you public enemy number one, even among criminals.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs. I had no phone call. I had no lawyer. The Valente legal machine had ensured my arraignment was expedited, my bail denied without a hearing, and my name buried under a federal protective seal that blocked public defenders from accessing my file.

Three days passed in that cage. Three days of cold oatmeal, screaming fluorescent lights, and the constant, suffocating terror that Emma might have suffered permanent damage from the poison someone had poured into her veins.

On the third afternoon, a guard banged a heavy iron key against my bars.

"Valente! Visitor in Booth Four. Move!"

My heart hammered against my ribs as I was shackled at the wrists and led down a long, echoing corridor divided by scratched plexiglass partitions.

I expected Adrian. I expected Dante.

Instead, sitting on the other side of the glass, pressing her palms against the clear plastic partition with tears streaming down her pale face, was my younger sister, Lucia.

I dropped into the molded plastic seat and grabbed the heavy black telephone receiver. Lucia did the same on her side, her lower lip trembling uncontrollably.

"Isabella!" she sobbed into the plastic speaker. "Oh, my God, Izzy! Are you okay? Your face... what did they do to your face?"

"I'm fine, Lu," I lied, pressing my hand against the glass opposite hers. "How did you find me? The guards wouldn't let anyone on my docket."

"I had to go through a legal aid lawyer who works with the clinic downtown," Lucia cried, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "Izzy, you have to listen to me. The news is saying... they're saying you tried to murder the Valente baby! They're saying you confessed!"

"It's a lie, Lu! I found her in the dumpster! Someone drugged her!"

Lucia closed her eyes, her shoulders shaking with a fresh wave of grief that had nothing to do with my arrest.

"That's not the worst of it, Izzy," she whispered, her voice breaking into a jagged, desperate wail. "I went to see Dr. Evans this morning. My heart... the palpitations got worse."

My blood ran instantly cold. All the air left the room.

"What did he say, Lucia?" I demanded, pressing my face against the glass. "What did he say?!"

"The valve replacement surgery... we can't wait another year," Lucia sobbed, her tears smearing the plexiglass. "He said the scarring is too severe. If I don't get the operation within two months... my heart will give out."

Two months.

Five years of working three jobs, washing dishes at midnight, saving every single dollar in a rusted tin box under my mattress—all of it gone, swallowed by legal fees, frozen bank accounts, and a jail cell where I couldn't even earn minimum wage.

"Lu, listen to me," I said, my voice dropping into a desperate, ferocious whisper. "I am going to get out of here. I don't care what it takes. I will find a way."

"How, Izzy?!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the concrete walls of the visitation hall. "You're locked in a cage controlled by the most dangerous man in Chicago!"

A guard stepped up behind Lucia, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Visiting time's up. Let's go, kid."

"Isabella! Don't let them keep you here!" Lucia cried as they dragged her away from the glass, her fingers sliding off the plexiglass until she vanished through the heavy iron doors.

I sat alone in the booth, the dial tone buzzing dully in my ear.

Then the door behind me clicked open.

A guard I hadn't seen before poked his head in. "Valente detail. Get up."