THE MAFIA BOSS’S FIANCÉE LOCKED HIS ELDERLY NANNY IN THE ATTIC TO BURY A DYING CONFESSION, BUT WHEN I BROUGHT HER TO THE ALTAR, THE ENTIRE SYNDICATE CRUMBLED TO ASHES

The armored transport van burst through the chained corrugated gates of the Cicero warehouse in a shower of sparks and twisted iron.

Luca was at the wheel of our black Cadillac chase vehicle, his foot buried deep into the throttle as the tires fought the slick mud.

Behind us, two black Chevrolet Suburbans belonging to Salieri’s strike team swung into pursuit, their headlights cutting through the blinding downpour.

Automatic gunfire erupted from the lead Suburban, 9mm rounds drumming against our reinforced rear trunk lid like steel hail.

Glass shattered in the back window, scattering tempered diamonds across the leather seats where I crouched beside the medical kit.

“Stay down, Emma!” Luca barked, drifting the heavy sedan around a tight ninety-degree corner onto Cicero Avenue.

“I’m down, Mr. Moretti!” I yelled over the deafening roar of the engine and the thunder outside.

Ahead of us, the transport van carrying Caterina’s zinc casket was already accelerating toward the Interstate 290 entrance ramp.

Luca checked his rearview mirror, his jaw set in stone as the pursuers closed the gap to fifty yards.

“They don't want the casket,” Luca said coldly, swerving hard to avoid a burst of automatic fire that gouged the pavement.

“They want the ledger and the wire receipts.”

“If those papers reach the Commission, Salieri’s entire bloodline will be marked for extermination by dawn.”

A heavy bullet punched through our driver’s side mirror, snapping the plastic housing off into the rainy night.

Luca reached down to the floorboard and grabbed an automatic combat shotgun with his right hand while steering with his left.

He rolled his driver-side window down two inches, the freezing rain spraying across his face and soaking his tuxedo shirt.

“Take the wheel!” Luca commanded, leaning slightly toward the center console.

“What?!” I screamed, my eyes wide with sheer panic.

“I need both hands to disable their engine block, Emma!”

“Grab the wheel and keep us in the center lane!”

I didn't have time to hesitate, think, or let fear paralyze me.

I lunged forward from the rear seat, throwing my body over the leather console, and grabbed the leather-wrapped steering wheel with both hands.

The vibration of the tires traveling at eighty miles per hour traveled straight through my arms and shook my spine.

Luca leaned out the open window into the rushing wall of freezing rain, resting the heavy barrel of the shotgun across the door frame.

BOOM.

The first slug tore into the front grille of the lead pursuing SUV, blowing a cloud of white steam from its shattered radiator.

BOOM.

The second slug punched clean through the driver’s side windshield of the chase car.

The lead Suburban veered violently to the left, its tires losing traction on the flooded asphalt as it spun out of control.

It slammed sideways into a concrete bridge abutment at seventy miles an hour, crumpling like an empty aluminum can in a fireball of exploding gasoline.

The secondary chase vehicle immediately swerved around the burning wreckage, accelerating with reckless fury to take its place.

“Good girl, Emma,” Luca grunted, pulling his dripping head back inside the vehicle and racking another shell into the chamber.

“Hold her steady for another three miles until we clear the city limits.”

We hit Sheridan Road, where the highway curved perilously along the steep bluffs overlooking the black expanse of Lake Michigan.

The wind here was savage, whipping waves against the rocks eighty feet below and tossing spray over the guardrail.

The second Suburban pulled up along our passenger side, its heavy steel bumper ramming into our rear quarter panel with a sickening crunch.

The impact jerked the steering wheel violently in my grip, nearly ripping it from my fingers as our tires screeched across the wet yellow lines.

“They’re trying to pit-maneuver us over the bluff!” I screamed, fighting with every ounce of strength in my arms to keep the nose straight.

Inside the other vehicle, a gunman rolled down the passenger window, raising a submachine gun aimed directly at my head.

Before he could fire, Luca leaned across me, his body shielding mine entirely from the window.

He leveled his sidearm through the passenger glass and fired three rapid shots through our own window into the gunman’s chest.

The gunman dropped back into the cabin, but the driver of the Suburban rammed us again with suicidal desperation.

Our right rear tire hit a deep pothole on the shoulder, blowing the tire out with a loud BANG that sent our rear end fishtailing toward the guardrail.

The sedan slammed into the galvanized steel barrier, sparks showering the windshield as metal ground against metal with an ear-splitting screech.

The Suburban backed off three yards, preparing to ram us broadside to send us plunging through the broken barrier into the freezing lake below.

“Emma, hit the emergency brake on my mark!” Luca ordered, his voice cutting through my panic like an anchor in a hurricane.

“Now?”

“Not yet… wait for him to commit his front bumper…”

The Suburban surged forward, its massive V8 engine screaming as it lunged toward our passenger door.

“NOW!” Luca roared.

I yanked the center emergency brake lever upward with everything I had.

Our rear wheels locked instantly, sending our sedan into a violent, controlled three-hundred-and-sixty-degree spin across the flooded roadway.

The pursuing Suburban missed our flank entirely, plowing straight through the damaged guardrail where we had been sitting a split second before.

The heavy truck sailed through the empty air for a terrifying moment before plunging nose-first into the churning black waves of Lake Michigan.

A muffled explosion rumbled from the deep water below, sending a plume of white spray over the jagged rocks.

Our car finally came to a halt in the center of the empty highway, the engine idling roughly through a cloud of radiator steam.

I collapsed back against the center console, my chest heaving, my hands trembling so violently that my knuckles ached.

Luca didn't look at the burning road or the broken guardrail; he looked directly at me.

His dark eyes were wide, filled with an intensity of respect that no maid in Chicago had ever received from a mafia Don.

He reached out with his right hand and gently brushed a lock of wet hair away from my forehead.

“You saved my life, Emma Sullivan,” he said, his voice soft, steady, and profound.

“I just… I just kept the wheel straight, Mr. Moretti,” I panted, tears of pure adrenaline finally spilling down my cheeks.

“No,” Luca said, shaking his head slowly.

“Most men with guns would have let go and closed their eyes.”

“You didn't flinch.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his clean silk pocket square, and gently pressed it against a small cut on my temple where flying glass had grazed me.

“From this night on, you will never call me Mr. Moretti again.”

“To this family, and to me, you are Emma.”

The headlights of our armored transport van appeared around the bend, slowing down as it spotted our smoking sedan.

Marco leaned out of the passenger window of the van, shouting through the rain.

“Boss! Are you alright?!”

Luca stepped out into the freezing downpour, his posture tall, unyielding, and commanding once more.

“We are alive, Marco,” Luca called back through the storm.

“And we have the ledger.”