THE NEW NURSE STOPPED THE MAFIA BOSS’S PRIVATE TREATMENT IN FRONT OF HIS ARMED GUARDS—THEN HIS DOCTOR SAID FIVE WORDS THAT MADE HER BLOOD RUN COLD

“Gabriel!” I shouted as the lock engaged.

Gabriel threw his entire two-hundred-pound frame against the heavy wood. The door shuddered, but the reinforced solid oak didn't yield. This was a mafia stronghold; the internal security doors were built to withstand a siege.

“It’s deadbolted from the exterior corridor,” Gabriel panted, his breath fogging slightly against the polished wood. He stepped back, drawing his sidearm. “Stand back. I’ll blow the lock.”

“Wait!” I yelled, running to Eleanor’s side. The frail woman was hyperventilating, her pulse thumping wildly beneath the thin skin of her neck. “A gunshot inside this room will tell whoever is in that hallway exactly where we are. How many men did Isabella bring?”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched. “That wasn't my security team on the radio. Those were contract enforcers. Mercenaries hired through the syndicate’s eastern branch. If they’ve already taken the front gate, there are at least six to eight armed men in this house.”

“There’s a service elevator,” Eleanor wheezed, grabbing my sleeve with desperate strength. “Behind the dressing room. Antonio had it built when his hips failed. It leads down to the wine cellar… and the underground tunnels beneath the carriage house.”

Gabriel looked at Eleanor, realization flashing in his dark eyes. “The old bootlegger passages.”

“Yes,” Eleanor nodded, tears spilling down her withered cheeks. “Go. Take the nurse. Take Antonio’s envelope to Vincent. Leave me here. Isabella won’t kill her own mother.”

“She’s been poisoning you for a month, Mrs. Moretti,” I said bluntly, wrapping my arm around her thin shoulders. “She’s not leaving any witnesses. You’re coming with us.”

“I can barely walk, child—”

“Then I’ll carry you,” Gabriel said. He holstered his gun, scooped the seventy-one-year-old matriarch into his arms as if she weighed nothing, and nodded toward the dressing room. “Hannah, grab that cooler with the medication bags. If we survive tonight, that’s our physical evidence against Whitmore.”

I lunged across the room, grabbed the small medical cooler by its handle, and shoved the thick manila envelope into the waistband of my scrubs, pulling my zip-up fleece over it to keep it secure.

Gabriel kicked open the mirrored door of the walk-in closet. Behind rows of vintage fur coats and evening gowns sat a narrow wooden panel. He shoved it aside with his elbow, exposing an antique brass elevator gate.

Below us, gunshots erupted.

The sharp, deafening *crack-crack-crack* of automatic rifle fire echoed through the mansion’s ventilation shafts, followed by the sound of shattering glass and heavy thuds. Isabella’s mercenaries were clearing the first floor, eliminating any loyal Moretti guards who dared to resist.

“Get in!” Gabriel ordered.

I squeezed into the cramped, metal-caged lift beside Gabriel and Eleanor. Gabriel pulled the brass gate shut and slammed his hand onto the downward lever. The old motor groaned beneath us, cables whining in protest as the elevator descended into the dark belly of the mansion.

The drop was agonizingly slow. Every second felt like an eternity. Above our heads, we heard the bedroom door being kicked open. Heavy boots thudded against the hardwood floor directly over us.

*“They’re not here! Check the closet!”* a rough, accented voice barked.

A burst of gunfire tore through the ceiling of the elevator shaft. Sparks flew as bullets ricocheted off the steel cables. Eleanor screamed, burying her head in Gabriel’s chest. I dropped to my knees on the metal floor, covering my head as concrete dust rained down on us.

The elevator hit the basement level with a bone-jarring crash.

Gabriel shoved the gate open. We tumbled out into the cold, damp air of the estate’s private wine cellar. Rows of dusty vintage bottles stretched into shadows on either side.

“This way,” Gabriel whispered, leading the way through a maze of wooden racks toward a low, arched brick doorway hidden behind a rack of imported ports.

He kicked the latch free, revealing a dark, earthen tunnel that smelled of moss and damp soil. It sloped downward, disappearing into absolute blackness.

“Where does this lead?” I asked, struggling to keep pace as my sneakers slipped on the damp stone.

“Two hundred yards east, under the outer perimeter wall,” Gabriel explained, his voice tight with adrenaline. “It exits into an abandoned boathouse on the edge of Lake Michigan. I keep an unmarked SUV parked in the utility shed behind it for emergencies.”

We ran.

My lungs burned. My calves screamed from the strain of sprint-walking through the uneven tunnel, but the adrenaline pulsing through my veins drowned out the fatigue. In my arms, the medical cooler clattered. Against my stomach, the wax seal of Antonio Moretti’s final testament dug into my skin.

Five minutes later, we reached a heavy iron grating. Gabriel pushed it open, and the freezing, rain-swept wind of Lake Michigan slammed into our faces.

We emerged into the rotting wooden interior of an old boathouse. The dark waters of the lake churned violently outside, waves crashing against the wooden pylons. Through the cracked wooden slats of the shed, I could see the distant lights of the main mansion atop the bluff. Red and blue emergency lights were flashing near the main gates, but they weren't sirens—they were the private security strobes of Isabella’s lockdown.

Gabriel led us to a mud-splattered black Chevrolet Tahoe concealed beneath a heavy canvas tarp behind the shed. He opened the rear door, gently placed Eleanor across the back seat, and turned to me.

“Get in the passenger seat. Keep your head down.”

I didn't argue. I scrambled into the front seat, clutching the cooler between my knees.

Gabriel climbed behind the wheel, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. He kept the headlights off as he shifted into drive, navigating the slick, muddy dirt track that wound through the dense pine trees away from the estate.

Only when we merged onto the slick asphalt of the highway leading toward downtown Chicago did Gabriel finally exhale, switching on the low beams.

“Where are we going?” I asked, my hands shaking uncontrollably as the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. “The police?”

“No police,” Gabriel said grimly. “Isabella has city officials on payroll. If we walk into a precinct with an envelope and a cooler of unverified medicine, we’ll be detained, separated, and dead before dawn.”

“Then where?”

Gabriel adjusted the rearview mirror, checking for pursuit.