Chapter 4 - The Sound of Glass BreakingI didn't wait for Marcus to finish tracing Julian’s digital footprint. I grabbed my sidearm, cleared the security bunker in three long strides, and took the stairs two at a time, sprinting back toward the west wing with a sickening premonition twisting in my gut.
By the time I reached the heavy oak doors of my master suite, I knew something was wrong.
The corridor was dead silent. Too silent.
The brass doorknob was no longer locked—it hung loosely, the internal mechanism sheared clean off by a heavy crowbar or a silenced breaching charge.
My heart slammed against my ribs with brutal force. I drew my Sig Sauer, flicked off the safety, and kicked the double doors wide open.
"Elena!" I roared.
The bedroom was trashed. The antique vanity had been shoved aside, clothes were strewn across the carpet, and the French doors leading to the second-floor balcony were shattered into a thousand glittering shards of glass, letting the freezing Chicago wind howl into the room.
Blood.
A single dark crimson drop glistened on the white marble threshold of the balcony doors.
"Damn it!" I cursed under my breath, rushing out onto the balcony. Below, fresh footprints cut through the fresh layer of snow on the terrace roof, leading down the exterior fire escape toward the service courtyard.
They hadn't just broken in; they had grabbed her. Julian or his operatives must have doubled back through the blind spots while I was downstairs in the security bunker, using Elena as leverage to force me out into the open.
My phone buzzed sharply in my jacket pocket.
I pulled it out. An unknown, encrypted number flashed on the screen. I swiped and pressed it to my ear.
"DeLuca," a raspy, distorted voice hissed through the speaker. "Impressed with your security? You might run the city, Matteo, but you left your back door wide open."
"Where is she?" I demanded, my voice dropping an octave into pure, unadulterated ice.
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"The girl? She’s breathing—for now," Julian’s voice sneered through the electronic filter. "If you ever want to see her alive again, and if you want the rest of the files on who really blew up your brother’s car six years ago, come down to the abandoned meatpacking plant on 22nd Street alone. No guards. No police. If I see a single black SUV tailing you, her body goes into the river."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
