The first scream ripped through the Rossi mansion so violently that I dropped the towel in my hands. “Harper!” five-year-old Finn cried from upstairs

A wave of ice rushed through my veins. I dropped the phone onto the marble counter and ran toward the front foyer, my sneakers squeaking against the polished stone floor.

I threw open the massive wooden front doors and stepped out onto the porch. The afternoon air was warm, but a sudden chill made me shiver.

At the end of the long, winding concrete driveway, the heavy iron gates stood wide open.

"Guard house!" I yelled, taking a few steps down the stone stairs. "Hey!"

No one answered. The guard booth at the perimeter was completely dark. I sprinted down the drive, my heart pounding in my ears like a sledgehammer. When I reached the booth, my breath hitched in my throat.

The two guards Victor had left posted at the gate were slumped over inside. One was unconscious against the wheel of his golf cart; the other was lying on his side on the concrete floor, a small pool of blood spreading from a wound on his temple.

They were alive, breathing heavily, but clearly knocked out by a silenced weapon or gas.

"Oh god," I whispered, backing away.

Finn.

My brain scrambled to piece the timeline together. Finn was with Mateo at the speech therapy clinic downtown. But if the gates were breached here, it meant someone wasn't just coming for Victor—they were dismantling his entire stronghold.

I reached for my phone, only to realize I had left it on the kitchen counter in my panic.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I turned to run back toward the house, but before I could take three steps, the sound of screeching tires echoed down the quiet suburban street. Two dark gray vans tore through the open iron gates, kicking up gravel as they roared up the driveway toward the main entrance.

I ducked behind a thick line of boxwood hedges, holding my breath as my chest heaved. Heavy doors slammed open. I peeked through the leaves and saw six men spilling out of the vehicles. They were wearing tactical gear, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas, carrying suppressed submachine guns.

These weren't common burglars. This was a tactical hit squad.

"Sweep the ground floor!" a man with a thick thick accent barked. "Find the boy's nanny. The boss wants her alive. If Rossi's personal guards pull up, put a bullet in every single one of them!"

They were looking for me.

The voice on the phone made sense now. They didn't just want to destroy Victor's business; they wanted to strip him of everything he used to protect his son. And if they couldn't get Finn, taking the woman who raised him was the next best leverage.

I stayed crouched in the bushes until the men breached the front doors, their heavy boots echoing through the cavernous foyer. Once the driveway was clear, I broke cover and sprinted around the back of the estate toward the garage.

The Rossi garage was a separate six-car facility that housed Victor's collection of luxury vehicles, along with an old, beat-up pickup truck used by the landscaping crew. I slammed my shoulder into the side entry door, bursting inside.

The keys for the maintenance truck were kept on a pegboard near the workbench. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped them twice before managing to jam the key into the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

I slammed the truck into reverse, stepping hard on the gas pedal. The truck lurched backward, smashing through the wooden side doors of the garage with a deafening crash of splintering wood and shattering glass.

Out in the driveway, two of the masked gunmen turned at the noise, raising their weapons.

"Stop!" one shouted.

I didn't stop. I slammed the shifter into drive, ducked below the dashboard, and floored the accelerator. The heavy steel bumper of the truck clipped the side of one of their gray vans, sending a shower of sparks into the air as I blasted through the open gates and onto the main road.

Bullets peppered the rear tailgate of the truck—THUMP, THUMP, THUMP—shattering the back window and showering my hair with safety glass.

I didn't care. I pulled out onto the highway, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, my heart screaming.

I needed to reach Victor. I needed to reach Finn.

Five miles down the road, I pulled into the parking lot of a gas station, threw the truck into park, and ran inside. The teenage clerk behind the register gasped as I burst through the door, my hair full of broken glass and my shirt stained with grease.

"I need your phone!" I demanded, slamming my hand onto the counter. "Emergency! Now!"

Scared out of his mind, the kid handed over his cell phone.

I dialed Victor's private, unlisted number—a string of digits I had memorized on my very first day of employment.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Speak," Victor's cold baritone cut through the line.

"Victor!" I sobbed, the adrenaline finally giving way to sheer terror. "They're at the house! A hit squad—six men, heavy weapons! They knocked out the gate guards!"

Silence fell over the line for a fraction of a second, followed by the terrifying sound of a gun slide racking into place.

"Harper?" Victor's voice lost all its ice, replaced by a raw, feral urgency. "Where are you? Where is Finn?"

"Finn is with Mateo! He's safe, he's at the clinic!" I cried, gripping the phone until my hand hurt. "They came to the estate for me, Victor! They said... they said they wanted leverage against you!"

"Listen to me very carefully, Harper," Victor said, his tone dropping into a low, murderous frequency that chilled me to the bone. "Where are you right now?"

"The Shell station on Route 41."

"Stay inside. Do not move. Lock the doors," Victor ordered. "I am ten minutes away. If anyone comes through that door who isn't me or Mateo, you kill them with whatever you can find. Do you understand me?"

"Victor—"

"Do you understand me, Harper?" he roared through the phone.