The morning my four-year-old daughter ordered the most feared man in our city to sit in the corner, I was holding a lemon in one hand and wondering whether I had enough cash to disappear before his men found my body.

I didn't sleep for the remainder of the night.

When the pale gray light of dawn crept through the bedroom curtains, I was sitting on the edge of the bed with a needle and black thread, carefully sewing Barnaby’s spine back together. My stitches were clumsy, far worse than Daniel’s neat, even handiwork, but from a distance, the gray velveteen looked whole.

The titanium drive was no longer inside.

It was taped securely to the inside of my thigh, hidden beneath the heavy fabric of my denim jeans.

At 6:00 a.m., Lily stirred, rubbed her eyes with both fists, and reached out instinctively for her rabbit.

“Morning, Barnaby,” she mumbled, burying her nose into the plush fur. She looked over at me, blinking away sleep. “Mommy, is Mister still in the corner?”

A wet laugh escaped my throat despite the terror knotting my stomach. “No, sweetheart. Mister served his five minutes yesterday. Remember?”

“He has to eat pancakes today,” she declared, sliding out of bed and marching toward the small en-suite bathroom. “Pancakes are Rule Five.”

“We’ll see, baby. We might have to go on a trip today.”

She stopped at the bathroom door, looking back with wide, suspicious brown eyes. “To the park?”

“Somewhere further. A nice house with trees and a big yard.”

Lily considered this for a moment. “Does the new house have pancakes?”

“All the pancakes you want.”

She smiled, satisfied with the terms of the negotiation, and went inside to brush her teeth.

I packed our two small suitcases in under ten minutes. We had arrived with almost nothing, and leaving required little more than folding a few pairs of jeans, Lily’s cartoon sweaters, and her medication.

At 6:45 a.m., I carried the bags into the service corridor leading to the garage.

The house was eerily silent. Usually, by this hour, the grounds crew would be clearing the driveways, and Mrs. Doyle would have the scent of fresh chicory coffee drifting through the central halls.

Instead, the air smelled faintly of sulfur and ozone.

I stepped through the heavy metal door into the private garage bay. Marcus’s armored black Suburban was parked near the exit gate, its engine purring with a low, subterranean rumble.

Marcus was leaning against the driver’s side door, his hands tucked into his leather jacket. When he saw me, he straightened, tossing a toothpick into a steel drum.

“Morning, Elena,” he said, his voice flat. “Bags in the trunk. Little girl buckled in the middle seat. We leave in three minutes.”

“Where is Vincent?” I asked, scanning the shadows of the concrete garage.

“Upstairs. Settling accounts,” Marcus said. He didn't look at me as he took the suitcases from my hands. “Don't ask questions. Just get the kid inside.”

I turned back toward the service door to call Lily, who had lingered near the water cooler in the hallway.

She was standing still, clutching Barnaby to her chest.

Standing behind her, his hand resting lightly on her small shoulder, was Julian Vance.

Julian wasn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and in his right hand, held loosely against his thigh, was a semi-automatic pistol with a sleek, carbon-fiber suppressor attached to the barrel.

“Good morning, Elena,” Julian said smoothly.

My voice died in my throat. Every muscle in my body seized with an electric, paralyzing terror.

“Lily,” I managed to squeak out, my feet moving forward before my brain could process the danger. “Come to Mommy.”

Julian’s fingers tightened slightly on Lily’s shoulder—not enough to hurt her, but enough to hold her in place. Lily looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Mister Vance,” she said, her voice small. “Your shoes are dirty.”

Julian didn't look down at her. His cold, pale eyes remained locked on mine.

“Where is the drive, Elena?” he asked softly. “I searched your room while you were packing. It wasn't in the drawers. It wasn't in the suitcase.”

Marcus took a step forward from behind me, his hand reaching beneath his jacket.

“Julian,” Marcus growled. “Step away from the child.”

From the shadows of the upper mezzanine overlooking the garage bay, two men in dark tactical gear stepped into view, their assault rifles pointed directly at Marcus’s chest.

“Stand down, Marcus,” Julian said without turning around. “The estate’s perimeter security was reassigned twenty minutes ago. The Moretti transport is at the outer gates. Vincent is alone in his study with four of my associates. The Marquette era is over.”

Julian tilted his head, smiling that thin, lifeless smile.