"She was supposed to be invisible, but after taking a wall of shattered glass meant for Dante Moretti’s son, the most feared man in Chicago looked into her eyes and quietly said, “You’re coming with me.”

The storm raged through the midnight hours, whipping the trees against the library windows like clawed hands.

I couldn't sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed in my room, wearing a simple black sweater and pants, the silver handgun resting on the nightstand beside me. Down the hallway, Matteo was fast asleep, guarded by two heavy-set men with automatic rifles standing outside his door.

At 2:15 AM, the power died.

The glowing digital clock on the table flickered out. The warm floor lamps vanished. The entire estate was instantly plunged into pitch-black darkness.

A heartbeat later, the emergency generators should have kicked in. They didn't.

My survival instincts, forged through years of living in rough neighborhoods and honed by the recent horror of my life, kicked into overdrive. I grabbed the silver gun off the nightstand, checking the safety just like Marco had shown me briefly that afternoon.

Crack.

A muffled sound echoed from the lower floor. It wasn't thunder. It was the distinct sound of a suppressed gunshot.

My blood ran cold.

They were inside.

I sprinted out of my room, keeping low against the wall, navigating the dark hallway by memory. I reached Matteo’s room just as a dark figure stepped out from the shadows near his door.

"Marco?" I whispered frantically.

The figure turned. In the faint flash of lightning from the window, I saw the face. It wasn't Marco. It was a broad-faced man wearing a tactical vest with a Luciano family crest pinned to his chest. On the floor behind him lay one of Dante’s guards, motionless.

The man raised a silenced pistol toward me. "End of the line, waitress—"

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.

Remembering Dante’s words—Shoot first. Do not wait.—I raised the silver gun with both hands and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot roared in the narrow hallway like a cannon blast, bright light flashing from the barrel.

The bullet struck the man squarely in the chest. He let out a wet gasp, staggered backward against the wall, and slid down to the floor, his gun clattering uselessly against the carpet.

My hands were shaking violently, the smell of gunpowder filling my nose, my ears ringing from the noise. I had just shot a man. I had just taken a life to protect this house.

"Elena!"

Matteo’s terrified scream came from inside the room.

I kicked open the door, grabbed the crying five-year-old out of his bed, and wrapped him tightly in my arms. "I've got you, baby. I've got you. Stay quiet, okay? We have to move."

I carried Matteo through the dark, back service corridors of the estate, heading toward the basement panic room Dante had shown me days ago. Every shadow felt like an assassin; every creak of the floorboards sent a spike of terror through my chest.

As we reached the top of the grand staircase leading to the ground floor, three flashlight beams swept across the dark marble entrance hall below.

"Find the kid!" a rough voice shouted from downstairs. "Bianca said the Don is at the docks! Clean out the house before his team gets back!"

I pulled Matteo behind a thick stone pillar at the top of the stairs, pressing my back against the wall, holding my breath. My heart was beating so loud I was convinced they could hear it from below.

There were three men downstairs. I had four bullets left in my gun. I was a waitress, not a soldier. We were trapped.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors at the front entrance of the mansion were blown inward off their hinges with a deafening BOOM.