THE MAFIA BOSS WATCHED ME KNEEL BESIDE HIS 85-YEAR-OLD GRANDMOTHER AS SHE STRUGGLED TO BREATHE DURING HIS ENGAGEMENT TOAST—THEN HIS FIANCÉE SAID, “SHE'S ONLY PRETENDING TO BE SICK,” BEFORE LUCA FOUND THE OLD WOMAN'S EMERGENCY MEDICATION LOCKED INSIDE HIS BRIDE'S HANDBAG.

The sound of shattering glass echoed from the ground floor below, followed by the sharp, unmistakable crack of a silenced gunshot.

My blood ran cold. I clutched the weathered journal and the brass skeleton key tightly to my chest, turning toward the private service exit at the back of Rosa’s suite.

*“Elena, report!”* Luca’s voice was no longer calm; it was raw, commanding, and laced with absolute panic. *“Where are you?”*

*“I have the journal,”* I panted, sprinting down the private back stairs. *“I’m heading for the south garden exit.”*

*“Don't go out the garden,”* Luca ordered instantly. *“Vincent has that side cut off. Go through the old wine cellar. There’s a drainage tunnel that leads out to the perimeter road. My car is waiting there.”*

I didn't hesitate. I changed direction mid-stride, racing down the spiraling stone steps that led deep into the bowels of the Moretti estate. The air down here was damp, smelling of aged oak, dust, and centuries of dark family history.

The wine cellar was vast, lined with thousands of priceless bottles resting in dark, recessed alcoves. But as I rounded a corner near the back tasting room, the beam of my flashlight caught a pair of heavy leather boots standing motionless in the aisle.

I froze, killing my flashlight instantly.

“I heard something down here,” a low, gravelly voice echoed through the dark vault.

“Check the tasting room. Vincent wants that girl alive, but if she resists, make it look like an accident.”

Panic surged through my veins. I backed away slowly, my heel catching against an empty wooden crate.

*Clatter.*

The sound bounced off the stone walls like a gunshot.

“There!”

A flashlight beam slashed through the darkness, illuminating the dusty air right where I stood. I didn't wait. I turned and bolted down the narrow corridor toward the brick archway leading to the drainage tunnel.

Footsteps pounded heavily behind me, closing the distance with terrifying speed.

“Stop right there, bitch!”

I burst through the arched iron door into the brick drainage tunnel, the cold night air rushing in to meet me. The ground was slick with mud and rainwater. I pushed my legs faster, my lungs burning, the heavy journal slipping in my grip.

Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed the back of my coat collar, yanking me backward with brutal force.

I screamed, swinging my elbow back with all my might. My elbow connected hard against someone’s jaw. A deep grunt of pain echoed behind me, and the grip on my coat loosened just enough for me to wrench myself free.

I tripped, sprawling hard onto the wet gravel, scraping my palms raw.

Before the operative could recover and lunge at me again, a pair of heavy tactical boots appeared in front of me, followed by the deafening roar of a firearm.

*Bang. Bang.*

The pursuer collapsed instantly into the mud.

A large, powerful hand grabbed my arm, hauling me straight up to my feet with effortless strength. I looked up, chest heaving, expecting more of Vincent’s men.

Instead, I looked straight into Luca Moretti’s dark, furious eyes.

“Are you out of your absolute mind?” Luca roared, his chest rising and falling heavily as he kept his smoking firearm aimed down the dark tunnel.

“I... I got the journal,” I gasped, holding out the weathered book like a shield.

Luca stared at it for a fraction of a second, his dark gaze burning into mine. Without a word, he swept me up into his arms, carrying me out of the drainage tunnel and directly into the back of a idling armored SUV parked in the shadows of the perimeter road.

Marco slammed the heavy steel doors shut from the outside, and the vehicle tore away into the Chicago night.

Inside the dim, leather-lined cabin of the moving SUV, Luca dropped heavily onto the bench seat beside me. He didn't look at the journal. He looked at me—at the mud smeared across my cheek, the blood oozing from my scraped palms, and the wild, terrified look in my eyes.

Without a word, Luca reached out, gently taking my bleeding hands into his large, warm palms. He pulled out a clean linen handkerchief from his pocket and began to gently wipe the dirt and blood from my skin, his touch astonishingly tender compared to the violent chaos we had just escaped.

“You could have died tonight, Elena,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly with an emotion he rarely allowed to surface.

“If I stayed in that hospital, or if I let Vincent’s men find that journal, I would have died anyway,” I replied, looking up into his dark eyes. “And so would Rosa.”