For fourteen days, Chicago’s most feared mafia boss watched helplessly as his premature son screamed whenever anyone touched him. Doctors tried everything.

I stared at the four words on Daniel’s screen.

THE BABY WAS NEXT.

My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t pull in air. I looked down at Leo, still sleeping soundly against my collarbone. He weighed barely five pounds.

“Who sent this?” I whispered.

Daniel’s eyes flicked to the reinforced glass window of the NICU door. Outside, his two armed guards were still standing there. Watching us.

“The men outside,” Daniel said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register. “They aren’t my men anymore.”

I froze.

“What do you mean?”

“Only three people in the world knew I was moving Leo to Suite A tonight,” Daniel said. He slowly reached behind his back, slipping his hand under his dark suit jacket. “Me. My uncle Silas. And the head of my security detail standing right outside that door.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “You think they’re going to kill us in a hospital?”

“No,” Daniel said. He pulled a matte-black handgun from his holster and held it flat against his leg. “They need me to walk out first. If they shoot me in here, the hospital goes into lockdown. They want me in the garage.”

He looked at me. His eyes were completely devoid of the panic I felt.

“Can you run with him?” he asked.

“He’s not unhooked from the monitors,” I said, my hands shaking. “If I pull the leads, the central desk alarm will trigger. Everyone will know.”

“Good. A distraction.” Daniel stepped closer. “Where does the staff exit lead?”

“The basement,” I said. “The laundry and medical waste docks. But the door requires a master keycard.”

“I’ll handle the door.” Daniel reached out and gently touched his son’s tiny back. His hand was trembling, just slightly. “Pull the leads, Rachel.”

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t a hero. I was a junior nurse with a mountain of student debt. But I looked at the photograph on Daniel’s phone—my brother Michael, bleeding, tied to a chair.

I had to get to him. And I couldn’t leave this baby to die.

I moved fast. I peeled the adhesive monitors off Leo’s chest.

Instantly, the wall monitor shrieked. A high-pitched, piercing alarm echoing down the hallway.

Outside the glass, the head of security turned sharply. He reached for the door handle.

It was locked.

He slammed his fist against the glass, shouting something we couldn’t hear over the alarm.

“Go,” Daniel ordered.

I held Leo tight against my chest, shielding his head, and ran toward the back of the suite. Daniel kicked open the adjoining supply closet door.

We slipped into the narrow service hallway just as the NICU door shattered behind us.

Gunfire. Inside a hospital.

Daniel shoved me behind a wall of oxygen tanks and returned fire. Two deafening shots. A man screamed.

“Move!” Daniel yelled.

We ran down the back stairwell. My legs burned. Leo started to stir, whimpering against my scrubs. I hummed the same note from before, keeping my breathing steady even though I was terrified. He settled again.

We reached the basement loading dock. It was dark, smelling of bleach and industrial laundry detergent.

“My armored car is parked in bay four,” Daniel said, keeping his gun raised as we moved between the massive steel laundry bins. “My driver is loyal. He’ll get us out.”

We reached bay four.

The black SUV was there. The engine was running.

But the driver’s side door was hanging open.

Daniel walked up to it, his weapon steady. He looked inside, and his shoulders instantly dropped.

I came up behind him.

The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. Dead.

Daniel grabbed the man’s shoulder, pulling him back to move the body. As he did, something clattered off the driver’s lap and hit the asphalt right at my feet.

I looked down.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was a heavy, silver St. Christopher medal. The chain was broken.

I dropped to my knees, balancing Leo with one arm, and picked it up with a trembling hand. I turned it over.

Engraved on the back were the words: To Michael. Always find your way home. Love, Rachel.

I had given this to my brother ten years ago. He never took it off.

“Rachel,” Daniel said, his voice hard.

I looked up.

He reached into the dead driver’s hand and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He opened it.

It wasn’t a ransom note.

It was a faded, yellow valet parking ticket. And stamped in red ink across the top were the initials C.R.