At 9:17 that evening, my fiancé told three hundred of Chicago's

My breath caught in my throat. The room seemed to tilt beneath my heels. "Which sister?"

"Gianna," Luca replied grimly, pulling a radio from his tactical vest. "She was leaving her classes at DePaul University an hour ago. Two black SUVs boxed in her car near Fullerton Avenue. A student witness called it in. Dominic’s enforcers left a burner phone on the pavement."

Cosimo was in motion before Luca finished the sentence. He moved with the terrifying, instantaneous efficiency of a military commander.

"Get the rapid response team," Cosimo ordered, pulling a heavy semi-automatic handgun from a concealed drawer under the conference table and racking the slide with a clean, metallic snap. "Seal off all roads leading into the 31st Street corridor. Luca, call Captain Miller at the 12th District. Tell him there’s a gas leak on the lower tracks—no patrol cars within ten blocks for the next sixty minutes."

"On it," Luca barked, sprinting back toward the elevators.

I grabbed my wool coat from the stand, my hands shaking not from fear, but from a blinding, incandescent rage. "I’m coming with you."

Cosimo stopped, turning to face me in the hallway. "No. Dominic is erratic, high on painkillers, and backed into a corner. He knows he’s ruined. That makes him lethal."

"Dominic took Gianna because he thinks I will trade the encryption keys to North River to save her," I said, stepping right up to his chest, refusing to yield an inch. "He’s right. I would burn those docks to the ground before I let him touch a hair on my sister's head. But he doesn't know how to unlock the offshore accounts without my biometric key. You need me there to keep him talking until your men flank him."

Cosimo looked into my eyes, searching for panic or hesitation. He found none.

"If you get in that car, you follow my orders without question," he said darkly. "If I say drop, you drop. Understood?"

"Understood."

Fifteen minutes later, four black armored SUVs cut through the pouring rain, tires screeching as we pulled into the rusted industrial wasteland of the abandoned Chicago South Shore rail depot. Derelict boxcars stood like silent iron beasts in the mist, surrounded by weeds and shattered glass.

The convoy killed its headlights fifty yards from the main maintenance hangar.

The burner phone on the dashboard buzzed. Cosimo answered and put it on speaker.

"Ferraro," Dominic’s voice crackled through the speaker, erratic, high-pitched, slurring with chemical desperation. "Tell me your little accountant girlfriend is in the car, or I start breaking fingers."

I leaned over the console. "I'm here, Dominic."

A ragged, triumphant laugh wheezed through the speaker. "Look who decided to show up! The big CEO! Come inside the main repair bay, Francesca. Just you and Cosimo. Unarmed. You bring the digital authentication drive for the Zurich accounts, or Gianna gets a one-way ticket to Lake Michigan."

The line went dead.

Cosimo checked his watch. He glanced back at Luca and four heavily armed operatives in the back of the SUV. "They have snipers on the catwalks. Standard flanking maneuver. Luca, take three men through the southern freight tunnel. Silence the lookouts. When the interior floodlights flash twice, you breach."

"Understood, boss."

Cosimo turned to me. He unbuttoned his coat and pulled a compact, pearl-handled .380 pistol from an ankle holster, handing it to me handle-first. "Do you know how to use this?"

"My father insisted his daughters know how to shoot paper targets at a range," I said, checking the magazine and chambering a round with practiced efficiency. "I’ve never shot a person."

"Aim for center mass," Cosimo said quietly, his hand resting briefly over mine, steadying my grip. "And don't hesitate. Dominic surrendered his right to mercy the second he touched your family."

We walked through the rusted iron side door of the maintenance hangar. The air was frigid, smelling of damp earth, diesel fuel, and industrial rust. Rain hammered relentlessly against the corrugated tin roof fifty feet overhead.

In the center of the concrete floor, under the glare of two portable halogen work lights, sat a single wooden chair.

My nineteen-year-old sister, Gianna, was tied to the chair, her face bruised, duct tape pulled across her mouth. Her eyes widened with profound terror when she saw me, muffled sobs shaking her small frame.

Behind her stood Dominic Russo. He wore a dirty trench coat, his wounded arm still cradled in a bloody sling, his other hand holding a heavy nickel-plated revolver pressed directly against the crown of Gianna’s head. Six armed thugs flanked him, assault rifles held at the low-ready.

"Stop right there!" Dominic screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild, saliva speckling his stubbled chin. "Keep your hands where I can see them!"

Cosimo and I stopped ten paces away. Cosimo stood tall, relaxed, his hands casually resting in the pockets of his slacks—a posture of supreme, insulting indifference.

"You look terrible, Dominic," Cosimo remarked coldly. "A man should never mix Percocet with cheap bourbon."

"Shut up! Shut up!" Dominic shrieked, pressing the barrel harder against Gianna's temple. My sister let out a muffled whimper, tears cutting clean paths through the dust on her cheeks. "You think you won, Ferraro? You think you can steal my territory, take my woman, and ruin my life?"

"You ruined your own life when you decided to crawl into bed with Armand Vance," I said, stepping slightly forward to draw his crazed attention away from Gianna. "Did Vance tell you he was going to save you, Dominic? Did he promise you a new house in Arizona under witness protection?"

Dominic glared at me, his lip curling in hatred. "He’s got a sealed warrant for your arrest, Francesca! You give me the Zurich decryption codes right now, or I swear to God I’ll paint this floor with your sister’s brains!"

"Vance doesn't have a warrant," I lied smoothly, keeping my voice calm, hypnotic, drawing him in like an auditor baiting a fraudulent bookkeeper. "The Department of Justice dismissed the task force two hours ago. Vance was picked up by the FBI internal affairs unit at O'Hare trying to board a flight to Grand Cayman. You're holding a dead hand, Dominic."

Dominic’s eyes flickered with sudden, gut-wrenching doubt. "You're lying... you're lying!"

"Call him," I challenged, taking one slow step closer. "Pull your phone out and call your protector. See if he answers."

Dominic's hand trembled. For a fraction of a second, his focus shifted from Gianna toward his coat pocket.