"Eighty-seven minutes into the flight, the infant son of one of New York’s most feared mafia bosses was still screaming. Three bottles, four blankets, and calls to a private doctor had failed, until ten-year-old me walked up to Vincent Moretti, pointed to a tiny black disc hidden beneath the blanket, and whispered: 'Your baby isn’t hungry. He’s afraid—and I know who put that tracking device there because I found the exact same thing under my mother's table the morning she vanished.'"

When the plane finally touched down with a heavy thud and began taxiing toward the private executive terminal, I sat in a plush first-class leather seat with Maya curled up sleeping against my shoulder. Across the aisle, Vincent Moretti sat holding his baby boy—whose name, I had learned during the flight, was Leo—rocking him gently while reviewing a stack of encrypted digital documents on a secure tablet.

The moment the seatbelt sign chimed, the private terminal outside the window swarmed with activity.

Three sleek black armored Suburbans sat parked directly on the tarmac beside the jet bridge, surrounded by half a dozen men in heavy wool coats standing at attention in the freezing wind.

“Stay close to me, Leah,” Vincent instructed without looking up from his screen as the cabin door swung open. “Chicago isn't as friendly as it looks on postcards, especially when half the city council is on someone else’s payroll.”

“We’re meeting our aunt,” I repeated stubbornly, clutching Maya’s stuffed rabbit in my hand.

Vincent finally looked up, a faint, humorless smirk touching the corners of his mouth. “Right. Your aunt. Let’s go find her.”

As we stepped off the plane into the biting Chicago chill, the wind whipped my thin jacket right through to my bones. I shivered violently, pulling Maya closer to my chest.

Before I could take a second step, a heavy, expensive cashmere overcoat descended over my shoulders, smelling of cedar, expensive cologne, and dark coffee. I looked up in shock to see Vincent walking past me in his shirtsleeves, having given me his own coat without breaking his stride.

“Keep it,” he muttered over his shoulder as his lead guard escorted us down the metal stairs toward the waiting SUVs.

The terminal inside was a blur of armed security, whispered conversations in foreign languages, and men rushing to open heavy car doors. We were whisked into the middle vehicle of the convoy—a rolling fortress of bulletproof glass and reinforced steel.

As the convoy peeled away from the tarmac and headed south toward the city center, I pressed my face against the cold window, watching the gray skyline of Chicago rise in the distance.

I thought we were running away to safety. I thought reaching Chicago meant leaving the ghosts of New York behind us.

I was catastrophically wrong.

Ten minutes into the drive, the secure satellite phone on the console between the front seats began to ring with a harsh, rhythmic chime.

The driver answered it, listened for three seconds, and handed the receiver back to Vincent with a pale, ashen face.

“Boss,” the driver said, his voice shaking. “That was our safehouse contact in the West Loop.”

“And?” Vincent demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s compromised. Someone went through the apartment forty-eight hours ago. They left a calling card.”

Vincent took the phone, his expression turning to pure, unadulterated ice. He didn't shout. He didn't slam his fist against the console. He just sat there in absolute, terrifying silence.