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The ink on the medical schedule wasn't standard printer black. It was darker, heavier, pressed down with the kind of deliberate malice that only a fountain pen could deliver. I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. / Chapter 9 / 20

Chapter 9 - The Final Trap at the Precinct

We sprinted through the overgrown woods until we reached the main road, flagging down a passing delivery truck that dropped us four miles away near the 14th District police precinct.

The rain had started pouring down, soaking us to the bone. My hands were freezing as I pulled the crumpled medical form out of my pocket.

We walked through the heavy glass doors of the police station. The front desk sergeant looked up lazily, chewing on a toothpick.

“Can I help you, ma'am?”

“I need to see Captain Miller immediately,” I said, my voice breathless and urgent. “It’s about the Valente syndicate. I have proof of an internal assassination plot.”

The sergeant’s expression changed instantly. He reached under the desk, pressing a silent buzzer. “Take a seat in the back office. Captain Miller will be right down.”

Relief washed over me. We were safe. We had reached the law.

We walked into the empty back office, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. I pulled Amara close, letting out a long, shuddering breath.

Then the office door locked from the outside.

A heavy click echoed through the room.

I spun around and yanked the brass handle. Locked solid.

From the shadows near the filing cabinets, a man stepped out into the light. He wasn't Captain Miller.

It was one of Dante’s lead enforcers, wearing a crisp Chicago Police Department uniform that didn't belong to him.

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The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled from a sunken ship. Across the line, Marcus let out a breath that sounded like a low whistle escaping a pressure valve. Nineteen years of rust, nineteen years of school plays, quiet dinners, and ledger sheets—all of it dissolved in the space of a single heartbeat.

The burner phone in my hand felt heavy, like a slab of cold iron pulled...

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me three agonizing seconds to place the face behind the silver-trimmed beard. Arthur Vance. The reclusive billionaire shipping tycoon, corporate sniper, and my father’s oldest, most estranged rival.

The man in the back of the Bentley was not a stranger, though it took me...

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz trio outside, playing as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis. Grant stared at the single sheet of thick parchment resting against the cold Italian marble. His breath caught, a shallow, ragged hitch that gave away his panic before his voice ever could.

The kitchen was so quiet you could hear the distant murmur of the jazz t...

“Nice try, Clara,” the fake officer said, drawing a pistol with a silencer attached to the barrel. “Dante sends his regards. He knew you'd run straight to your precious police.”

My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. There was nowhere left to run.

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