THE LABELS WE FORGED IN BLOOD AND SILENCE

The Sikorsky S-76 did not fly along the standard commercial flight paths over Lake Michigan.

Petrov, a former Ukrainian military pilot who had flown low-altitude extraction missions during the Donbas conflicts, kept the heavy helicopter fifty feet above the churning grey waves of the lake.

The spray from the water battered the cockpit glass as the twin turboshafts screamed at maximum continuous power.

Inside the passenger cabin, the roar was deafening.

I sat strapped into a five-point racing harness, clutching the blue plastic chemical ledger so tightly against my Kevlar vest that my knuckles were numb.

Matteo sat directly across from me, a lightweight M4 tactical carbine resting across his knees.

He was cleaning the optical lens of an infrared sight with the corner of a clean microfiber cloth.

He showed no fear.

He showed no fatigue.

His eyes were wide, black pools of lethal focus, completely centered on the mission ahead.

Beside him, Silas was loading thirty-round magazines with armor-piercing 5.56 green-tip ammunition, the mechanical clatter of brass against steel sounding like a death rattle in the enclosed cabin.

Silas leaned toward Matteo, shouting over the engine whine.

“Petrov says we are two minutes out from the Lake Forest shoreline!”

“The wind is gusting at forty knots out of the northeast!”

“He can't put the skids down on the formal lawn without tipping into the fountain!”

“We don't need the lawn,” Matteo shouted back, his voice cutting through the roar with effortless command.

“Tell him to hover ten feet above the second-story terrace on the west wing!”

“Silas, you take the roof team through the skylight!”

“Claire and I go through the master conservatory doors!”

My head snapped up.

“I’m coming through the front with you?”

Matteo reached across the cabin, his gloved hand coming down firmly on my shoulder.

“Carlo’s men are expecting an assault team from the perimeter gates.”

“They are not expecting a two-man breach through the glass conservatory.”

“You know the interior layout of that wing, Claire.”

“You cleaned it every Tuesday for six months.”

“You know where the secondary panic doors are, and you know which floorboards creak under the rugs.”

“More importantly,” Matteo said, leaning closer until I could feel the heat of his breath against my freezing cheek, “Carlo wants that ledger.”

“If he sees you holding that blue binder, he will hesitate for three seconds before giving the order to fire.”

“And three seconds is all I need.”

I looked down at the small .38 revolver resting in the pocket of my jacket.

My stomach was tied in violent knots, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.

Ten months ago, my biggest worry had been whether the silver polish would leave streaks on Donna Carmela’s heirloom teapots.

Now, I was about to jump from a hovering military helicopter into a firefight to save my father from being murdered by a mobster.

“I know where the light switches are for the conservatory,” I told him, meeting his obsidian gaze without flinching.

“The breakers for the interior chandeliers are wired through the service pantry behind the grand staircase.”

“If we cut those, the library will be blind from the hallway.”

Matteo’s mouth curved into that same cold, terrifying smirk.

“Good girl.”

The helicopter pitched violently forward as Petrov pulled the collective up, slowing the massive machine from one hundred and fifty knots down to a dead hover.

The roar of the engines changed pitch, dropping into a deep, guttural thrum that vibrated through my dental fillings.

Silas slid the heavy cabin door open.

A wall of freezing rain and fifty-mile-an-hour prop wash blasted into the cabin, instantly soaking my hair and clothes.

Below us, illuminated only by the faint security lights of the estate, was the slate-tiled roof and the stone balustrade of the second-story terrace.

The trees surrounding the estate were whipping wildly in the hurricane-force downdraft.

“Go!” Matteo roared.

Silas and three heavily armed operators dropped from the skid, their boots hitting the wet stone of the terrace with practiced grace, vanishing instantly into the gloom toward the roof access door.

Matteo grabbed my waist with his left arm, pulling me against his side.

“Hold onto the ledger with both hands, Claire!”

“Brace your knees when we hit!”

Before I could scream, we stepped out into the empty air.

The fall lasted less than a second, but my stomach leaped into my throat.

We slammed onto the wet terrace stone.

Matteo absorbed eighty percent of the impact, his knees bending, his heavy frame shielding me as we rolled across the slippery slate.

He was on his feet before the momentum had even stopped, his M4 carbine coming up into the high-ready position.

The helicopter immediately banked hard to the left, climbing back into the rainy clouds to draw the attention of any perimeter guards looking toward the sky.

We sprinted across the terrace toward the wrought-iron spiral staircase leading down into the glass conservatory.

The estate was dark, save for the dull yellow glow spilling from the tall, leaded windows of the ground-floor library fifty yards away.

Matteo pulled his tactical radio from his vest, keying the mic with his thumb.

“Leo,” Matteo whispered, his voice steady as granite.

“We are on the ground.”

“Sector four halon discharge on my mark.”

Through the earpiece resting in Matteo’s ear, I heard my brother’s voice, clear and cold:

“System armed and waiting, Mr. Romano.”

“Give the word.”

Matteo looked at me.

He reached down, taking my hand for a brief, electric second.

“Stay two steps behind me, Claire.”