Prologue

The front door creaks open ever so slowly and softly. The faint sound is immediately drowned out by the loud music, the laughter and the clink of chips falling onto the poker table in the back room. The space is filled with cigar smoke and brutal men whose faces hold genuine smiles as they gamble with stolen money. A half dozen of them are tucked away in the back of the modern home.

Seven men filter in through the front, dressed all in black, with leather gloves but no masks.

In that very front room there’s a crib and next to it a lullaby sound machine on the fireplace mantel, meant to lull the infant into a sweet dream. Chubby little hands wrap around a rattle as wide eyes watch but can’t see that far as the men take careful steps through the hall.

The floor groans in protest, but just like the front door, it’s unheard. Not a single one of them expected anything more than drinking and betting during their monthly poker game.

The song’s soothing refrain is punctuated by the staccato bang of guns cutting through the night. Feminine steps race down the stairs at the front of the home, rushing with the silent terror of a mother. Her screams are joined by shouting. Chaos only lasts a moment, one blur, one execution carried out seamlessly and planned for years.

The lullaby never stops as one of the assailants grabs the woman by her waist. The baby can’t see how she struggles in the unknown man’s arms to reach her child. She pleads and prays but can’t do anything other than thrash in the arms of someone more prepared, and far stronger than she.

The sweet melody is at such odds with the silence that follows a bullet pinging on the tiled floor. Bodies lie around the poker table, blood seeping into the sides of tailored suits and what were once crisp white button-downs.

It’s quiet, all but the cadence of a lullaby the infant has heard since before he was born. Footsteps aren’t so careful anymore as the music suddenly halts and the men filter out. The woman is carried away, all the while fighting for her child.

One man approaches the crib, and two rough, callused hands wrap around the top railing. A bundled baby, wrapped tightly yet those little arms somehow escaped, looks up at dark eyes.

A gruff voice whispers something to the man who stares down at the child, and he only gives a nod in response.He’s murdered more men than he’s shaken hands with.

The man carefully picks up the child, bringing the one-month-old to his chest. “Hush now, little one.”

* * *

Madelyn

My breathinghardly comes in as another scream tears through my throat. Tears prick my eyes, burning them as I slam my fists against the trunk.

I’ve been taken, I’m trapped and nothing is in my control anymore. A terror that threatens to consume me takes over.

“My baby!” I cry out again, pleading with men who ignore me. “Please!” I beg them.

They won’t listen, though. Even as panic tenses all my body, and adrenaline pounds through my veins, I’m all too aware they won’t listen to me.

I know what he wants. My racing heart slows.

A chill settles through me as I hear a knock on the steel roof above me. “You be quiet now, you don’t want to wake the baby,” a man says, his voice carrying through the metal enclosure of the trunk.

“Please,” I whisper so lowly, I’m not certain a soul could hear.

The command comes out final yet tinged with sympathy, although I may be wrong. Perhaps I only imagine a semblance of mercy. “You listen to me, and everything will be all right.”

Connor

Two days ago

My brother’sfootsteps crunch in the snow. Fletcher’s silent, but I’m more than certain I know what he plans to say. A bitter wind whips by, my black tie waving in the breeze as I stare down at the carved stones in the ground. Two people who should have never been laid to rest will lie here for all eternity.

“What is it?” I barely manage to ask after I swallow the hard lump in my throat. It’s all for them, for my wife and son I lost years ago, yet it feels like I’ve betrayed them.

“Is there anything I can do?” my brother questions behind me and it’s so softly spoken, the harsh wind nearly drowns out the words.

Turning to face him, his hands are splayed across the front of his charcoal suit. Remorse wears itself on his face whenever we find ourselves here.

“It’s been six years,” I say, telling him a truth he already knows.

He only nods and then clears his throat as he takes the necessary steps to close the distance between us. He swallows so hard it’s audible before he says, “Friday night, it’s set.”

With my brother in front of me and my past behind me, I’m all too aware that what I’m going to do next is cruel and unforgivable. He took my wife and child … this is a fair trade.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

I don’t answer him; all I know is that I need this to happen. More than I need to live.