"Well, well," Victor Vance said, stepping over the threshold, a cruel smile twisting his face. He looked at Clara, sizing her up and finding her laughable. "The fat maid playing bodyguard. Where is my daughter, you piece of trash?"

"Your daughter is dead," Clara said, her voice surprisingly steady, the gun leveled squarely at his chest. "And if you take one more step, you'll join her."

Victor laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. He snapped his fingers. "Miller, shoot this cow and grab the kid. Dante will surrender his territory once I have his brat."

Miller raised his weapon, hesitation flickering in his eyes. He knew Clara. She had baked him muffins on his night shifts.

"I'm sorry, Clara," Miller muttered. "He paid me two million dollars."

Clara didn't hesitate. She remembered Dante's voice. Squeeze, don't pull.