STOP WAVING YOUR HANDS! YOU'RE EMBARRASSING ME!” THE MAFIA BOSS'S FIANCÉE WHISPERED TO HIS DEAF NINE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER DURING THEIR ENGAGEMENT DINNER.

The smell of black coffee filled the kitchen at five in the morning.

I hadn’t slept a wink. While Isabella remained fast asleep upstairs under the watchful eye of an armed guard stationed outside her room, the ground floor of the Moretti mansion had transformed into a command center.

Six men in dark suits stood around the long granite kitchen island, checking magazines and slipping handguns into shoulder holsters. Luca stood at the head of the island, a massive blueprint of the Chicago riverfront spread out before him.

“Bellini thinks I’m vulnerable because I’m defending the estate,” Luca said, his voice calm, cold, and utterly terrifying. “He thinks grief and anger make men sloppy. He expects me to bring my full convoy to Pier 42, which leaves the mansion under-guarded.”

“Is that what he’s doing, boss? A diversion?” Marco asked, racking the slide of his Glock.

“Of course it’s a diversion,” Luca replied coldly. “Vincent Bellini doesn't care about a torched shipping container. That was pocket change to get my attention. He wants Isabella. He wants to take my daughter to force me to surrender the South Side distribution network.”

My heart skipped a violent beat. I stepped into the room, holding a pot of fresh coffee. “He wouldn't dare touch a child.”

The men went silent, turning their heads toward me. Normally, a staff member would be thrown out for speaking during a war council, but Luca raised a hand, silencing his men instantly.

“To men like Vincent Bellini, Claire, there are no children,” Luca said, his eyes meeting mine across the island. “There are only assets and leverage. Vanessa knew where every security camera was placed. She knew our patrol rotations. She spent six months mapping this house.”

“Then we don't stay here,” I said, the words spilling out before fear could choke them.

Marco frowned. “With all due respect, miss, the estate has twelve-foot perimeter walls and thirty armed guards. There’s nowhere safer in the city.”

“Walls don't matter if someone already handed the enemy the keys,” I countered, looking directly at Luca. “Vanessa knows the basement tunnels. She knows the emergency panic room codes. You told me she prepared for this wedding meticulously. If she gave her father the layout, this house isn't a fortress anymore—it’s a cage.”

Luca’s dark eyes narrowed, scanning my face with intense scrutiny. The silence in the kitchen was thick enough to suffocate.

Finally, Luca spoke. “She’s right.”

Marco blinked. “Boss?”

“Vanessa had access to the master security log last week under the guise of setting up caterer clearances,” Luca said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. “She has the codes. Marco, take five men and an empty motorcade to Pier 42. Make a show of it. Burn rubber out the front gates. Make Bellini’s scouts think I’m in the back of the armored Cadillac.”

“And you, Don Luca?”

Luca reached into a drawer beneath the counter, pulling out a matte-black semi-automatic and checking the chamber with effortless familiarity. He tucked it into his waistband beneath his dark wool coat.

“Claire and I are taking Isabella out through the old service tunnel toward the lake cottage,” Luca ordered. “No phones. No trackers. Just one unmarked sedan.”

“Boss, that leaves you with zero backup,” Marco argued, his loyalty evident in his panicked tone. “If they intercept you—”

“No one knows the lake cottage exists except me and the dead man who built it,” Luca said with absolute finality. “Get moving. You have twenty minutes.”

Marco nodded reluctantly and turned to bark orders at his men. Within moments, the kitchen emptied, leaving only Luca and me.

He stepped around the island, his gaze locking onto mine. “Go wake Isabella. Don’t pack bags—it takes too long. Just get her coat and her shoes. We leave in five minutes.”

“I’m ready,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Claire,” Luca called out just as I reached the kitchen door.

I turned back.

“If anything happens to me on the road,” he said, his voice stripped of all mafia bravado, leaving only the raw desperation of a father, “you take Isabella and you run. Take the envelope hidden behind the painting in the cottage master bedroom. It has cash, clean passports, and new identities for both of you. You take her and you disappear.”

I shook my head. “Nothing is going to happen to you, Mr. Moretti.”

“Promise me, Claire,” he demanded, stepping close, his hand gripping my forearm with an intensity that burned through my cardigan. “Swear on your brother’s life. If I fall, you protect my daughter.”

I looked into his tortured, fierce eyes. “I swear on Leo’s life.”