I hit the cold linoleum floor just as the bullets shredded the plaster above my head.

The deafening pop-pop-pop of suppressed automatic weapons echoed in the confined space.

Matteo moved with terrifying speed in the dark. He didn't dive for cover; he dove toward the bed, dragging Eleanor to the floor.

"Leo!" Eleanor screamed over the gunfire.

"I’ve got him!" I yelled.

I scrambled across the dark room on my hands and knees, my palms slicing open on the shattered glass from the window. I found Leo cowering against the wall, clutching his sketchbook. I wrapped my body entirely around his small frame, shielding him with my back.

The gunfire stopped.

"Check the room," a gruff voice ordered from the hallway.

Matteo pulled a heavy matte-black pistol from his shoulder holster. He moved silently to the edge of the shattered doorframe.

As the first flashlight beam cut through the darkness, Matteo fired twice.

The heavy boom of his weapon was deafening in the small room. A body hit the hallway floor with a heavy thud.

"Go!" Matteo shouted, grabbing Eleanor by the arm and pulling her up. "Claire, carry the boy! Run for the stairs!"

I didn't think. I hoisted Leo onto my hip. He was remarkably light, his small arms wrapping tightly around my neck.

We pushed through the doorway, stepping over the fallen gunman. The hallway was a chaotic strobe of flashlight beams and shouting. Matteo’s two security guards were at the end of the corridor, laying down cover fire against three of Alessandra’s men who had breached the stairwell.

"Boss, the elevator is disabled! They locked down the building!" Luca shouted over the noise.

"Take the fire escape!" Matteo ordered.

He kicked open the heavy emergency exit door at the end of the hall. The freezing rain immediately blasted us, soaking my maid’s uniform to the skin.

We scrambled down three flights of rusted iron stairs. Eleanor was struggling, her legs weakened from years of forced sedation. Matteo practically carried her down the last flight, his gun still raised, his eyes scanning the dark woods surrounding the facility.

We reached the SUV. Matteo shoved Eleanor and me into the back seat. He threw Leo in beside me.

"Get us out of here," Matteo yelled to the driver, slamming the door.

The armored SUV roared to life, tearing across the manicured lawn of the facility, smashing through a decorative hedge, and careening onto the dark highway.

Inside the cabin, the silence was heavy, broken only by Eleanor’s ragged breathing and the sound of the rain lashing against the glass.

I held Leo tightly to my chest. He was trembling violently, his small face buried in my shoulder. I looked down and realized he was clutching something else besides the sketchbook.

It was an old, faded train ticket.

"What is that, sweetheart?" I asked softly, trying to keep my voice steady.

Eleanor looked over. She reached out with a shaking hand and touched the ticket.

"It was for the night he died," Eleanor whispered. "The night we were supposed to leave. Two first-class tickets to Montreal. Your father bought them, Matteo. He gave this one to Leo to hold."

She closed her eyes, exhausted. "Alessandra took the other one from his body after he fell."

Matteo stared at the ticket. The physical proof of his father’s attempt to abandon their family.

I expected him to be angry. To feel betrayed.

Instead, Matteo reached out and gently placed a hand on Leo’s head.

"He loved you," Matteo said softly to the boy. "My father was a complicated man, but he didn't give away his pocket watch to just anyone. You are a Romano, Leo. And nobody is ever going to hurt you again."

I looked at Matteo. In the dim light of the streetlamps passing by, I saw a streak of crimson running down the side of his neck.

"Mr. Romano," I gasped, reaching forward. "You’re bleeding."

A bullet had grazed his collarbone, tearing through his expensive coat and shirt.

"It’s nothing," he dismissed, not even flinching.

"It’s not nothing," I insisted. The nursing dropout in me took over. I reached into the SUV’s first aid kit mounted on the partition. I tore open a sterile gauze pad.

"Lean forward," I ordered.

For a second, the mafia boss looked surprised that a maid was giving him a direct order. But he complied, leaning closer to me.

I carefully pressed the gauze to his neck, applying firm pressure. He was so close I could smell the gunpowder on his clothes, mixed with rain and expensive cedarwood cologne.

His dark eyes locked onto mine.

"You didn't hesitate back there," Matteo said quietly, his voice vibrating in his chest. "You shielded the boy with your own body."

"He’s just a child," I said, my voice trembling slightly, acutely aware of how close we were.

"Your father," Matteo said, the intensity in his gaze deepening. "I believe you, Claire. If Thomas Miller took a bribe, you wouldn't be scrubbing floors to pay for your brother’s school. Alessandra set him up. She used his construction company to cover her tracks."

A wave of profound relief washed over me. He believed me.

Suddenly, Matteo’s cell phone vibrated violently in his pocket.

He pulled it out and put it on speaker.

"Luca. Report."

The voice on the other end wasn't Luca.

It was Alessandra.

"Hello, darling," her voice purred through the speaker, chilling the air in the cabin.

Matteo’s jaw tightened. "Alessandra. If you touch my mother—"

"Oh, your mother is perfectly fine," Alessandra interrupted with a light laugh. "We’re sitting in the parlor right now. Enjoying a cup of tea."

"What do you want?"

"I want my sister and the bastard child returned to the facility," Alessandra said, her voice dropping its sweet facade, becoming venomous. "And I want the little maid dead. If you don't bring them to me in exactly one hour..."

There was a scuffling sound on the line, followed by Mrs. Romano’s voice.

"Matteo! Do not bring them here! She has the—"

A sharp slap echoed through the speaker. Mrs. Romano cried out.

Matteo’s eyes turned completely black.

"If you hurt her," Matteo whispered, "I will peel the skin from your bones."

"One hour, Matteo," Alessandra said. "Or I start breaking your mother’s fingers."

The line went dead.