Before sunrise, the most feared mafia boss in Chicago was supposed to be dead unless the hospital found blood rare enough to save him. And while doctors searched desperately, my eight-year-old daughter sat in the waiting room coloring a horse purple—completely unaware that the dying man had her exact blue eyes.

The basement of St. Catherine’s Memorial was a labyrinth of concrete pillars, steam pipes, and yellow industrial lights.

I burst through the double doors into the linen bay, my lungs burning, my knees shaking so badly I could barely keep my footing.

Bay four was situated near the rear service ramp. Parked in the shadow of a massive laundry truck was Julian's personal vehicle—a matte-black, armored Dodge Durango with tinted windows and heavy reinforced bumpers.

I ran to the driver's side.

Just as Julian had promised, the key fob was sitting in the center console.

I threw open the rear door, shoving Chloe into the leather backseat, strapping her into the seatbelt with frantic, trembling hands.

"Mommy, I'm scared," Chloe whimpered, clutching her purple coloring book against her chest, her big blue eyes wide with terror. "Who were those men with the guns? Why was that sick man yelling?"

I leaned down, grabbing her small face in both my hands, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her nose.

"Listen to me, Chloe," I said, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound steady. "Everything is going to be okay. Mommy is going to get us out of here. But I need you to stay down on the floor of the car, okay? Cover your eyes and count to one hundred."

Chloe nodded bravely, sniffing back her tears, and crawled down into the footwell beneath the front seats.

I slammed the rear door shut, leaped into the driver's seat, hit the engine start button, and stomped my foot straight down onto the accelerator!

The heavy V8 engine roared to life with a guttural, terrifying growl.

The Durango shot forward out of bay four, tires screeching against the wet concrete floor, heading straight for the concrete exit ramp that led out onto 14th Street.

Suddenly, a black Lincoln Navigator swung around the corner of the ramp, blocking the exit!

Through the windshield, I saw Samuel’s chief security officer, Marcus, standing beside the open door holding an automatic shotgun.

He raised the barrel, aiming straight at my windshield.

My mind went completely blank. Eight years of teaching high school English, eight years of parent-teacher conferences and quiet Sunday mornings vanished in a single, primal instant of maternal rage.

I didn't hit the brakes.

I pressed the gas pedal all the way down to the floorboards.

"Hold on, Chloe!" I screamed.

The heavy armored bumper of the Durango slammed straight into the front grille of the Lincoln Navigator with a deafening, metallic CRUNCH!

The force of the impact deployed the Lincoln's airbags instantly, knocking Marcus off his feet and throwing his shotgun into the drainage gutter. The Durango's reinforced steel frame plowed right through the sedan's front end, shoving it out of the way like a toy car.