Chapter 1

Madelaine

Ihear them before I see them—the muffled sounds of breaking glass downstairs, the low voices, then shouting.

It's late.

The darkness outside is a pitch-black veil that hides the dangers lurking just beyond the reach of the Chicago streetlights.

Bang! The first gunshot.

Panic claws at me, raw and overwhelming. My mind races—the emergency numbers, the escape routes we never thought we'd need, all of it blurs in my terrified mind.

I scramble in the covers, my hands shaking as I grab my phone. Heavy footsteps on the stairs bring the danger to me. My breath hitches, my body frozen in terror and indecision.

In that split second, I realize the truth that chills me more deeply than the chilly night air.

I'm going to die.

The bedroom door crashes open with a violence that sends splinters flying across the room. A man in black steps into my bedroom—a silhouette of malice framed by the hallway light. I scream and shuffle off the bed, backing up against the wall.

My heart stutters as I recognize him—a former client from criminal court. Trace? Travis? No. Tray.

Tray Garreth was looking at seven years for a third-degree weapons possession charge. I got him kicked free…so he could kill me.

Irony is a fickle bitch.

"Mrs. Moneta," he growls, his voice a harsh whisper in the dark. The sight of him, here, in my personal space, shakes me to the core. "Where is your husband?"

I blink. "Probably out fucking a law clerk."

"He's not here?"

"I don't know. He often works late downstairs."

He shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. They'll find him. But you need to come with me if you want to live."

The absurdity of the situation is almost laughable—almost.

"What? Aren't you going to kill me?"

"Not if I don't have to. Hurry. Get dressed."

Too terrified to speak, I race into my closet, pull on pants, a pair of flats, and grab the ‘I'm leaving you bag' I stashed in the back of the closet.

When I hurry back out to my bedroom, Tray is waiting by the door. He steps aside, gesturing sharply. "Quiet. Follow me."

I move to leave and then rush back to the glass cabinet behind my desk. Opening the door, I grab the copper urn and tuck my mother's remains under my arm.

If I'm leaving this place, I'm not coming back. And I'm definitely not leaving her behind.

"We need to go." His urgency brooks no argument, but I have what I need.

We descend the staff stairs, bypassing the main hall where the sounds of the intrusion grow louder. There are men shouting in my father-in-law's study.

Tray leads me through the kitchen, to the staff door and outside. Outside, we move quickly across the backyard, shadows among shadows.

As we reach the boundary wall, Tray helps me over the old stone wall with a grunt, his hands firm and surprisingly gentle. Once we're safely on the other side, he finally speaks, his voice low and urgent. "I've got a car waiting a block down the road at the corner. It will take you to the airport."

I'm panting, the adrenaline and fear mingling into a nauseating cocktail. "Why are you helping me?" I whisper, my voice trembling.

He doesn't look at me as we hurry along the darkened street. "You saved me when I needed it," he says simply. "Now we're even. Don't come back. As far as they'll know, you're dead. Got it? I did my job and you're dead. Don't jam me up on this."

"I won't. I understand."

I want to ask more, to understand why he would turn against his own, but there's no time. I run the block, and the car is there, nondescript, its engine running softly.

When I get there, the driver waves a hand for me to get in. I don't hesitate.

The drive to the airport is silent, and I use the time to sort out a plan. I've got my freedom bag with me and in it, a passport with my new name and some money.

I'm somewhat prepared.

If Marco lives, he'll be too busy dealing with whatever just happened to worry about me. I'll disappear by then.

The car pulls up in front of the international departure's doors at the airport. "Don't come back, Mrs. Moneta. Not if you value your life. Tray stuck his neck out for you tonight. Don't fuck that up."

I gather my bag and open the door. "I won't."

"Leave your phone."

"What? Oh, right. Of course." I hand my phone up to the front seat and slip out of the back.

The moment the door slams shut, the car speeds away, melting back into the darkness from which he came, leaving me to face a future as uncertain as the night is dark.

Is Marco dead? I assume he is…or will be.

It wasn't the way I pictured leaving, but the fates intervened, and the end result is the same. I rush into O'Hare and I stare up at the departures screen to find something leaving within the hour.