The Plus-Size Maid Treated the Forgotten Old Man Like a King, Then the Most Feared Man in Chicago Walked In and Called Him Dad

The wind hit Emma like a physical blow, nearly tearing her fingers from the stone masonry.

Freezing rain instantly soaked through her wool dress, chilling her to the bone. Below her, the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan crashed against the limestone sea wall with a sound like rolling thunder.

She didn't look down. If she looked down, vertigo would pull her off the ledge.

She pressed her chest flat against the cold limestone wall, her rubber-soled nursing shoes inching sideways along the four-inch stone trim.

Clang!

Behind her, the door to her bedroom splintered inward as the intruder kicked it off its hinges. She heard the man cough violently from the smoke inside the empty room, followed by a frustrated curse echoing out into the hallway.

Emma forced herself to move faster.

Left foot. Right foot. Slide.

Her fingers scraped against the rough, wet stone, leaving streaks of red where her skin rubbed raw against the masonry. The wind whipped her dark hair across her face, blinding her for a terrifying three seconds until she managed to sweep it behind her ear with one shaking hand.

Fifty feet to the library window.

The library was directly above the subterranean panic room where Adrian and Walter were secured. If she could reach the french doors on the library terrace, she could smash the glass, drop inside, and warn them if anyone was trying to breach the sub-level access hatches.

Crack!

A gunshot echoed from inside the house, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor somewhere down the hall.

Emma didn't know who had fallen—one of Adrian’s men or one of Moretti’s executioners. The uncertainty made her heart hammer against her ribs like a trapped animal.

She reached the corner of the stone pillar, stretched her right hand across the gap, and grabbed the wrought-iron railing of the library terrace.

With a desperate, gasping lunge, she swung her weight around the corner and hauled herself over the iron balustrade, collapsing onto the wet stone floor of the terrace.

She lay there for five seconds, sucking in freezing night air, her entire body shaking from adrenaline and hypothermia.

Then she forced herself to her feet.

She grabbed a heavy iron flower urn sitting near the terrace doors, hoisted it above her shoulder, and slammed it directly into the center of the reinforced glass pane.

CRASH!

Shattered glass rained across the Persian rug inside the dark, cavernous library.

Emma scrambled through the jagged opening, cutting her forearm on a stray shard of glass, but she barely felt the pain. She landed hard on the hardwood floor, scrambled to her feet, and ran toward the hidden door behind the mahogany bookcase.

She pulled the brass lever disguised as a wall sconce.

The heavy iron bookcase swung inward, revealing a set of concrete stairs descending into the brightly lit panic room below.

As she started down the steps, a cold, metallic click stopped her dead in her tracks.