THE MAFIA BOSS HEARD VANESSA CLAIM THE MIRROR WAS FOR PHOTOGRAPHS EVEN THOUGH LUCA HAD NEVER REQUESTED IT

“Gianni!” I tried to shout.

Before the sound could leave my throat, the French glass doors shattered in an explosion of flying crystal.

Vanessa didn't come alone.

Two armed men in plain civilian jackets burst through the shattered frame behind her.

They were Bellini family loyalists who had been stationed outside the perimeter wall as an escape detail.

Gianni heard the glass shatter and lunged into the room, his gun drawn.

“Drop the weapon!” Gianni bellowed.

The first man fired.

The bullet struck Gianni in the right shoulder.

The force of the impact spun him around against the oak bookcase.

He fired back, catching the first gunman in the chest, but the second man closed the distance and slammed the heavy butt of an automatic shotgun across Gianni’s jaw.

Gianni collapsed onto the carpet, groaning, blood pooling beneath his temple.

“Gianni!” I screamed.

I turned to run toward the inner corridor, but a manicured hand with chipped red nails grabbed my hair from behind.

A brutal yank snapped my head back.

“You thought you won, didn't you, little trash?” Vanessa’s voice hissed into my ear.

Her breath was foul, rank with panic and bile.

Her beautiful face was twisted into a hideous mask of madness.

“You ruined everything! My wedding! My family! Luca threw me into a cellar like an animal because of you!”

“Luca threw you in the cellar because you killed his sister!” I yelled, struggling against her grip.

She struck me across my bruised cheek with the heavy gold compact she held in her fist.

Pain exploded behind my eyes.

Stars danced across my vision.

“Shut up!” she shrieked. “Grab her! Drag her through the rear garden gate! Antonio is waiting by the old coal pier!”

The surviving gunman grabbed me roughly by both arms, twisting my bandaged forearms behind my back.

The pain was blinding.

The fresh stitches tore against the gauze, and warm blood began to soak through the cotton again.

They dragged me backward through the shattered glass, across the terrace, and out into the drenched rose garden.

Thorns tore at my bare ankles.

The damp mud pulled at my feet.

I fought with every ounce of strength left in my body.

I bit down hard on the gunman’s hand.

He cursed violently in Italian and struck me across the side of the head with his forearm.

Darkness threatened to swallow my consciousness.

I heard the squeal of tires on wet gravel beyond the rear iron gate.

A rusted white utility van was idling in the alleyway behind the estate’s brick perimeter.

The rear double doors were thrown open.

They threw me inside onto the corrugated metal floor like a bag of scrap.

Vanessa scrambled in after me, slamming the doors shut from the inside.

The van lurched forward, accelerating violently into the morning fog.

Inside the dark cargo bay, the smell of diesel fumes, damp iron, and sour fear was overwhelming.

Vanessa sat on a metal crate opposite me, panting heavily, clutching a small silver revolver in her trembling hands.

“Antonio will pay me five million for you,” she muttered to herself, her eyes wide and wild, unblinking. “Five million. I’ll go to Costa Rica. I’ll buy a villa. Luca will never find me. He’ll never find you either. Once Antonio gets the port codes from Luca, he’s going to drown you in the lake.”

I lay on the cold steel floor, blood dripping slowly from my split lip onto my collar.

My head throbbed with every bump in the road.

I looked at Vanessa.

I didn't feel fear anymore.

The fear had burned out, replaced by a cold, burning clarity.

“Luca will kill you, Vanessa,” I said softly through swollen lips.

Vanessa laughed, a high-pitched, hysterical cackle that bounced off the steel walls of the van.

“Luca doesn't even know where we’re going! He’s chasing Ramos down at 55th Street! By the time he realizes you’re gone, Antonio will have your body chained to an anchor!”

She didn't know.

She didn't know what I had felt beneath Luca’s silk shirt before Gianni led me to the library.

Inside the left breast pocket of the shirt Luca had lent me—

Was a tiny, flat, magnetic GPS tracking fob that Luca always carried.

A military-grade locator synced to his wristwatch.

I could feel the hard, rectangular edge of the chip pressed firmly against my ribs.

Every second this van drove forward—