THE HONEY AND RYE BAKER

The silence in the back of Roman’s heavily armored SUV was suffocating.

We were speeding away from Union Station, leaving the sirens far behind, plunging deep into the industrial outskirts of Chicago. Lily was curled in the corner of the leather seat, staring blankly at her trembling hands.

Roman sat across from me, intensely bandaging a graze on his forearm. He moved with mechanical efficiency, locking his emotions in a vault.

“We’ve lost,” Lily whispered, her voice completely hollow. “She has the map. She’s going to give it to my father. He’s going to kill my mother and then he’s going to kill us.”

Roman stopped wrapping his arm. He looked at Lily, his expression softening just a fraction. “No one is dying today, Lily. Not you. Not your mother.”

“You can’t stop him!” Lily suddenly exploded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You heard Sophia! I did it! I burned the house! I killed—”

“Stop,” I said.

My voice was quiet, but it cut through the panic in the vehicle.

I leaned forward, placing my hand gently over Lily’s shaking fingers. “You were six years old, Lily. You were trying to save your mother from a monster. That fire wasn’t your fault. It was his.”

Lily sobbed, a devastating, broken sound, and leaned forward into my chest. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight, glaring over her head at Roman.

Roman held my gaze. The gratitude in his dark eyes was overwhelming. He mouthed the words, Thank you.

“And besides,” I added, stroking Lily’s hair. “Sophia doesn’t have the map.”

Roman froze. “Clare, I saw her man take the drawing.”

“He took the drawing,” I corrected, pulling away from Lily just enough to look at Roman. “But he doesn’t have the map. Because the drawing wasn’t the map.”

Roman frowned, leaning closer. “Your mother wrote on the back: The baker’s daughter knows the recipe. What does that mean?”

“My mother was an accountant, but she loved baking,” I explained, my mind racing as the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place. “When I was little, she used to tell me stories about a magic castle where flour rained from the sky and the rivers were made of honey. She made me memorize the directions to get there.”

Roman stared at me, completely speechless. “She disguised the location of the safehouse as a bedtime story?”

“Yes,” I said, a wave of profound respect for my late mother washing over me. “Take Interstate 55 south. Past the river of iron—that’s the old rail yard. Look for the three silver silos reflecting the sun.”

“The old Miller Flour Mill in Joliet,” Roman finished, realization dawning on his face. He quickly pulled up a satellite map on the SUV’s dashboard screen. “It shut down twenty years ago. Marcus bought the property through a shell corporation. He’s been hiding Elena there this whole time.”

He tapped the glass dividing the front and rear seats. “Reroute. Get us to Joliet. Now.”

Forty minutes later, the SUV cut its headlights, rolling to a silent stop behind a rusted chain-link fence.

In the distance, rising against the bleak gray sky, were three massive silver silos. The abandoned flour mill was a sprawling nightmare of corrugated metal, broken windows, and decay.

“Stay in the car,” Roman ordered, checking the chamber of his weapon.

“I’m coming with you,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.

“No, you’re not,” Roman snapped, his protective instinct flaring. “It’s heavily guarded. I don’t know what’s in there.”

“That’s exactly why I’m coming,” I argued. “It’s a flour mill, Roman. It’s my territory. I know how these buildings are laid out. I know where the ventilation shafts connect, where the loading bays hide blind spots. You need me.”

Roman stared at me for three agonizing seconds. Then, he let out a sharp breath. “Stay exactly behind me. Do not make a sound.”

He looked at his driver. “Keep Lily safe. Lock the doors. If I’m not back in thirty minutes, drive to the safehouse in Michigan.”

We slipped out of the vehicle and into the freezing wind.

Roman moved like a shadow, weaving between rusted machinery and overgrown weeds. I followed perfectly in his footsteps, my heart pounding in my ears.

As we approached the loading bay, I saw the guards.

There were four of them, heavily armed, pacing the perimeter. But as we got closer, I noticed something horrifying.

“Roman,” I whispered, pulling his sleeve. “Look at their boots.”

He narrowed his eyes.

They weren't wearing the expensive leather shoes of Mafia enforcers. They were wearing standard-issue tactical boots. And under their heavy winter coats, I could see the distinct shape of Kevlar vests.

“They aren’t Marcus’s men,” Roman breathed, his voice laced with pure venom. “They’re CPD. Chicago Police. Marcus bought the cops.”

This wasn’t a gang hideout. This was a fortress protected by the law.

Roman picked up a heavy chunk of rusted pipe from the ground and hurled it toward a stack of empty pallets fifty yards away. The crash echoed loudly.

Three of the cops immediately drew their weapons and sprinted toward the noise.

“Move,” Roman hissed.

We slipped past the remaining guard, Roman incapacitating him with a brutal, silent chokehold before the man could even turn around.

We entered the mill through a broken side door, slipping into the cavernous, pitch-black interior. The air was thick and heavy, smelling strongly of old wheat, damp earth, and something metallic.

I pulled out my phone, turning the flashlight on its lowest setting. I swept the beam across the floor.

My breath caught in my throat.

Lying in the center of a pile of old grain sacks was a woman’s winter coat.

It was dark blue velvet. I recognized it instantly. It was the same coat Lily’s mother was wearing in the drawing.

But it wasn’t empty.