The eighteenth nanny fled the mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that four-year-old Noah Vale was “not right”—and by that afternoon, I was kneeling in front of the same little boy while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase.

"Put the bag down, girl," Frankie ordered, his voice low and raspy.

I slowly stood up, holding the red duffel bag tightly against my chest, my mind racing frantically for an escape route. The closet had no windows, no back exit.

"Dominic knows," I lied, forcing my voice to stay firm. "He’s on his way up here right now."

Frankie chuckled—a dark, wet sound. "Dominic is downstairs drinking seventy-year-old scotch with four syndicate bosses who think I'm guarding the hallway. By the time they finish their cigars, you and the kid are going to have a tragic little accident."

My stomach dropped. "Noah?"

"I made a mistake fourteen months ago leaving that little brat alive," Frankie said, stepping closer, the gun never wavering. "He saw too much. But he was mute, so I thought I was safe. Then you showed up with your stupid wooden sticks and got him talking."

"He's a four-year-old boy, Frankie!" I shouted, my eyes blazing with fury. "He’s Dominic’s son!"

"He’s a loose end!" Frankie hissed, lunging forward to grab the strap of the bag.

I didn't hesitate. I swung the heavy red duffel bag with all my strength, slamming it straight into Frankie’s face.

The heavy stacks of cash and the hard USB drive caught him right on the bridge of his nose. Frankie grunted in pain, staggering backward, his gun firing a suppressed round that tore through a fur coat hanging beside us.

I sprinted past him, bursting out of the master bedroom and into the dark corridor of the north wing.

"GET BACK HERE, YOU BITCH!" Frankie roared from behind me, his heavy footsteps pounding against the floorboards.

I didn't run toward the main stairs—Frankie’s guards were posted there. I ran straight toward the glass conservatory at the end of the north wing.

The conservatory was a massive, glass-domed room filled with exotic tropical plants, stone fountains, and heavy wrought-iron furniture.

I burst through the double doors, slamming them shut and sliding a heavy iron decorative rod through the handles to lock it from the inside.

BANG! BANG!

Heavy bullets shattered the thick wood of the doors as Frankie threw his shoulder against them.

I ran through the winding gravel paths of the conservatory, panting heavily, my hand searching frantically through my apron pocket for my phone. I pulled it out and tapped Dominic’s direct line—a number Mrs. Hargrove had forced me to memorize on my first day.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"Clara?" Dominic’s sharp voice answered. "What is it? I’m in a meeting."

"FRANKIE KILLED YOUR WIFE!" I screamed into the phone, hiding behind a massive palm tree as the wooden doors behind me began to splinter. "HE HAS THE MONEY! HE HAS THE LEDGERS! HE’S IN THE CONSERVATORY TRYING TO KILL ME AND NOAH—"

CRASH!

The iron doors gave way. Frankie burst into the conservatory, his face covered in blood from his broken nose, his eyes wild with psychotic rage.

He spotted me behind the palm tree and raised his gun.

"Drop the phone, Clara!" he barked.

On the line, I heard Dominic’s voice turn into something utterly demonic. "Clara?! CLARA?!"

Frankie fired.

The bullet grazed my shoulder, tearing through my cotton shirt and knocking me flat onto the gravel path. My phone flew out of my hand, skittering across the stones, its screen shattering.

Frankie walked over slowly, standing over me, his heavy boot pinning my wrist to the ground. He pressed the hot barrel of the silencer directly against my forehead.

"End of the line, cleaning girl," Frankie sneered, his finger tightening on the trigger.

"FRANKIE!"

A roar echoed through the conservatory—a sound so violent, so terrifying, it sounded like a beast tearing through iron chains.

Frankie froze, his eyes widening in shock as he looked up.

Dominic stood at the entrance of the conservatory. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, covered in splash stains of red wine—or blood. In his right hand, he held a heavy tactical shotgun.