Dante did not answer Mara’s question right away. He stood by the expanse of glass, staring down at the city lights like a man accustomed to looking for threats in every shadow.

At ten o'clock that evening, while the gala was in full swing at the Plaza, a thick fog rolled off the East River, wrapping Midtown Manhattan in a blanket of grey mist.

Inside the penthouse at the Hotel Aurelia, seven-year-old Lena was asleep in her bedroom.

Frank and two other Moretti guards were stationed in the main hallway outside the suite. The house was quiet, lit only by the soft nightlights in the corridors.

Suddenly, the penthouse’s primary security monitor flickered and went dark.

In the basement security room, the main power line for the hotel’s upper floors was severed by a high-frequency explosive charge.

The penthouse fell into total blackness.

Emergency backup lights flickered on, glowing faint red.

Frank immediately pulled his weapon, tapping his ear piece. “Perimeter check! Station two, report!”

Only static answered.

From the private elevator doors at the end of the hall, a sharp metallic hiss echoed as hydraulic jaws forced the doors open. Six heavily armed men in dark tactical gear stepped out into the red light, suppressed automatic weapons raised.

They were Valenti hitmen.

“Protect the child!” Frank roared, opening fire down the hallway.

A fierce, deafening firefight erupted inside the marble corridors. Bullets shattered glass art pieces, tore through expensive paintings, and splintered the doorframes. Frank and his team fought valiantly, but they were outnumbered and caught in an open hallway.

Within three minutes, Frank was down, taking two bullets to the chest, while the other two guards were neutralized.

The lead Valenti assassin—a massive man named Lawson—stepped over Frank’s bleeding body and kicked open the door to Lena’s bedroom.

The room was dark.

Lawson raised his weapon, scanning the bed with a night-vision scope.

The bed was empty.

Lawson growled, stepping into the room. “Search the closets! Find the kid!”

Underneath the bed, squeezed into the tight space between the carpet and the wooden frame, seven-year-old Lena lay completely motionless.

Her small heart was pounding so hard she felt as though her ribs might crack. She remembered the dark car two years ago. She remembered the sound of twisting metal. She remembered the cold fear that had locked her voice in her throat for two years.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn't make a sound.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, plush gingerbread man that Mara had baked and sewn for her last week. She hugged it tight against her chest.

“If you ever feel scared, kiddo,” Mara’s voice echoed in her memory, “you don't need to be quiet to be safe. You just gotta let the world know you're here.”