The heavy oak doors of the Moretti mansion swung wide open, letting in a sharp gust of Chicago wind. But the cold air outside was nothing compared to the chill that froze the blood in my veins.

Vincent gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, navigating the heavy traffic like a professional race car driver. In the passenger seat, I clutched the dashboard, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it hurt.

"Marco," Vincent spoke into the hands-free console. "Give me coordinates."

"They just turned onto the Route 94 south off-ramp, heading toward Pier 42," Marco’s voice crackled over the speakers. "They know we’re tailing them, Boss. They’ve got a heavy-duty roadblock set up with two secondary vehicles. They’re trying to box us in."

"Hold your position," Vincent ordered calmly. "Do not engage until I give the word. I want them cornered."

"Copy that."

Vincent flicked a switch on the dashboard, and a hidden compartment beneath the center console slid open, revealing an array of digital tactical maps and a secondary submachine gun. He didn't look at me, but his voice was steady.

"Hold on to something, Elena. It’s going to get rough."

Before I could reply, the Mercedes surged forward with brutal acceleration, slamming us back into our seats. Up ahead, through the pouring rain and the glare of tailights, the flashing hazard lights of a black SUV came into view.

It was them.

My two-year-old daughter, Lily, was in that car.

"Vincent, please," I sobbed, the adrenaline finally overwhelming my self-control. "If anything happens to her... I won't survive it."

Vincent glanced sideways at me for a split second. In the dim light of the dashboard, his hard, unforgiving expression softened just enough to reveal a flicker of deep, buried pain.

"She’s going to be fine," Vincent promised, his voice carrying an ironclad certainty that made me believe him. "Julian wants leverage against me now that he knows I have you. That means he won't hurt her until he uses her as a bargaining chip. We're going to get her back."

Bang! Bang!

Suddenly, the rear window of the enemy SUV shattered. Gunfire erupted from the backseats, bullets pinging loudly off the reinforced armored plating of our Mercedes.

Vincent didn't even flinch. He downshifted aggressively, spinning the steering wheel into a sharp drift that threw us sideways across three lanes of traffic, completely avoiding a barrage of incoming fire.

"Marco, take out their back tires," Vincent commanded into the comms.

A second later, the deep roar of twin exhaust pipes echoed behind us as Marco’s vehicle pulled alongside the fleeing SUV. Muzzle flashes lit up the dark highway. Two sharp pops echoed over the sound of the engine, and the black SUV instantly swerved out of control, its rear tire shredding into ribbons of rubber.

The vehicle fishtailed violently before slamming sideways into a concrete highway barrier with a deafening crash, showering the pavement with sparks and shattered glass.

Vincent slammed on the brakes, bringing our Mercedes to a skidding halt right in front of the wrecked vehicle, blocking their escape route entirely.

The doors of the SUV flew open. Armed men spilled out into the rain, raising their weapons—but before they could even aim, the shadows around them seemed to come alive.

Vincent’s elite security team swarmed from the darkness, disarming and neutralizing the thugs in a matter of seconds with ruthless, military-grade efficiency.

Vincent kicked his door open and stepped out into the rain. I scrambled out right behind him, my heart in my throat as I ran toward the smoking wreckage of the SUV.

The rear door of the SUV was jammed.