The megaphone clicked off, leaving a heavy, suffocating silence in its wake.

I couldn’t breathe. My vision narrowed to a pinprick, the edges of the room blurring. Sophie was in the hands of the man who had murdered her father. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to hurt an eight-year-old girl to get what he wanted.

"Claire. Look at me."

Luca’s hands were on my face, his thumbs pressing firmly against my cheekbones, forcing my eyes to meet his. His dark gaze was an anchor in the middle of a hurricane.

"I am going to get your daughter back," Luca said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t sound panicked. He sounded like a man swearing a blood oath. "Do you understand me? Vincent is a dead man walking. He just doesn’t know it yet."

I nodded, a pathetic, jerky movement, but tears were already spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.

Luca turned to his men. "Take my mother to the safe room. Now."

"No!" Eleanor signed violently, slapping her hands against the armrests of her wheelchair. I am not leaving you. He will kill you.

"Mom, I can’t protect you and Claire and fight Vincent at the same time," Luca pleaded, dropping to one knee beside her. "You have to go with them. Please."

Eleanor looked at me. She saw the sheer, unadulterated terror in my eyes, the desperation of a mother whose child was in the hands of a monster. Slowly, her rigid posture softened. She gave Luca a single, sharp nod.

As the guards wheeled Eleanor away, Luca grabbed my hand. "We are not giving him the necklace," he said, pulling me toward the hallway. "If we give him what he wants, he has no reason to keep Sophie alive."

"Then what do we do?" I sobbed, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

"We lie," Luca said coldly.

He led me to the interior balcony overlooking the grand foyer. Down below, the massive oak front doors were bolted shut, reinforced by heavy iron bars. Luca’s men were stationed at every window, assault rifles raised.

"Open the doors," Luca commanded.

His men looked at him like he was insane, but nobody questioned the boss. Two guards stepped forward and threw back the heavy iron bolts. The doors swung open, revealing the dark, rain-swept driveway.

Vincent Rossi stood alone at the bottom of the front steps.

He was a tall, impeccably dressed man in a tailored charcoal suit, holding a black umbrella to shield himself from the rain. He looked more like a Wall Street banker than a ruthless killer. But it was the object dangling from his left hand that made my knees buckle.

It was a bright yellow backpack. Covered in little daisy patches.

Sophie’s backpack.

"Bring her out, Vincent!" Luca roared, his voice echoing off the marble walls of the foyer. "Show me the girl, or I shoot you where you stand."

Vincent chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He casually tossed the yellow backpack onto the marble floor. It landed with a heavy, sickening thud.

"The girl is perfectly safe, Luca," Vincent called up, his eyes scanning the balcony until they locked onto me. A sickening smile spread across his face. "Hello, Mrs. Dawson. You look just like your late husband. Terrified."

A sob tore from my throat. Luca pulled me slightly behind him, shielding my body with his own.

"Where is she?" Luca demanded.

"She’s sitting in a very nice, very locked car somewhere on the property," Vincent replied smoothly. "And the air conditioning is running. But, you know, cars can run out of oxygen quite fast when the windows are sealed. I’d say she has about thirty minutes before she takes a nap she won't wake up from."

My heart stopped. Thirty minutes.

"I brought you a gift, Luca," Vincent continued, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a thick manila folder and tossed it onto the floor next to the backpack. "That’s everything. Patricia’s bank records. Her wire transfers to the rival families. She’s been selling you out for two years. She hired the maid, she tipped me off, she set this whole thing up. I came to expose her."

I stared at the folder. It was a reversal so jarring it gave me whiplash. Vincent was the killer, but he was throwing Patricia under the bus. Why?

"You think I care about Patricia right now?" Luca spat, his hand resting on the gun at his hip. "You have a child."

"I have leverage," Vincent corrected. "You see, Patricia was greedy. She wanted the vault for herself. But I? I just want my fair share. Send the maid down with the necklace, Luca. You get the girl, you get Patricia’s head on a silver platter, and we part ways as businessmen."

Vincent stepped into the foyer, kicking the yellow backpack aside.

He looked directly up at me.

"Thirty minutes, Claire," Vincent mouthed, knowing I could read his lips.

Then, a voice rang out from the shadows of the ground floor hallway.

"He’s lying."

Patricia stepped into the light of the foyer. The guards who were supposed to have locked her in the study were lying motionless on the floor behind her.

And in Patricia’s trembling hands was a silver, snub-nosed revolver. She had it pointed directly at Vincent’s chest.

"He didn't put the girl in a car," Patricia screamed, her face twisted in a mask of pure hysteria. She reached into her pocket and threw a set of car keys onto the floor. "He doesn't even have his own car keys! He’s playing you, Luca. He’s going to kill us all!"

Vincent’s smug smile vanished. For the first time, he looked genuinely panicked. He reached for his weapon.

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