The name flashing on Mara Ellison’s phone screen was Vincent Vance—Silas Marcone’s chief legal advisor, trustee of the Marcone Empire, and the man who, just six hours ago, had asked Mara to sign a blank non-disclosure agreement regarding the estate's tax ledgers.

Empty. Vincent had been thorough.

"Behind the rack," Silas whispered into Mara’s ear, his jaw clenched against the agonizing pain in his shoulder. "There's a hidden panel in the brickwork behind the 1945 Chateau Margaux... press the third brick from the floor."

Mara didn't hesitate. She slung Silas’s uninjured arm over her broad shoulders, heaving his heavy weight across the stone floor toward the deep shadow of the wine racks.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

"Silas?" Vincent’s voice was closer now. "Don't make this difficult. I have two guards with me. If you sign the titles, I’ll let you live out your days in a private clinic in Switzerland."

Mara reached the back wall. Her fingers searched frantically in the dim light, scraping against cold, rough brickwork. One... two... three!

She slammed her palm against the third brick.

CLICK.

A narrow three-foot section of the brick wall swung inward smoothly, revealing a pitch-black escape tunnel that smelled of cool earth and river air.

Mara ducked behind the crates, grabbed Poppy in one arm, and dragged Silas through the narrow opening with the other. She pulled the brick panel shut just as Vincent stepped into the main cellar vault.

Through a tiny millimeter-wide slit in the brickwork, Mara watched.

Vincent Vance stood in his immaculate gray suit, flanked by two armed syndicate enforcers wearing black tactical gear.

Vincent looked at the empty wooden chair, the severed blue cords on the floor, and the pool of fresh blood.

"What the hell?!" Vincent roared, his polished demeanor shattering into pure panic. "Where is he?! Search the room!"

One of the guards pointed at the floor. "Boss... look. Little footprints."

Vincent bent down, picking up the broken half of Poppy’s pink rabbit-handled scissors lying in the blood.

Vincent’s eyes narrowed into razor blades. "The housekeeper's brat."

He crushed the broken plastic scissors in his hand, his face twisting into a hideous, murderous sneer.

"Mara Ellison," Vincent hissed, turning to his guards. "Lock down the manor. Put ten men on the gates. Find that fat maid and her child. Bring them to me alive... or dead. Nobody leaves this estate."

Inside the pitch-black secret tunnel, Mara pressed her hand over Poppy’s mouth, holding her daughter tight against her chest.

Beside her, Silas lay against the dirt wall, his breathing fast and shallow.

He looked up at Mara in the darkness. He couldn't see her face clearly, but he could feel the soft, steady rise and fall of her chest, the warmth of her body protecting her daughter, and the absolute lack of panic in her posture.

"You saved my life, Mara," Silas whispered, his large hand reaching out in the dark, his calloused fingers wrapping around her small, soft hand, squeezing tightly.

Mara looked down at him, her dark eyes flashing with a fierce, protective light.

"He called my daughter a brat," Mara whispered back, her voice shaking with a terrifying, cold fury. "He's not just taking your empire, Silas. He tried to hurt my baby. How do we burn him to the ground?"