Thirty-five thousand feet in the air on a private jet, the desperate, fading cries of a starving infant cut through the cabin so sharply every maternal instinct I’d spent three months trying to bury since losing my own twins screamed to life; at the very front sat Dominic Walker, the infamous crime boss and billionaire everyone in America feared, trembling and helpless as he tried again and again to feed his daughter a bottle she refused to take.

Nobody moved.

Nobody sat.

Dominic’s gun stayed aimed at Vito’s head.

"Let my men go," he said. "This is between you and me."

Vito laughed.

A wet, rattling sound.

"Between you and me? You killed my son. Three years ago. You put a bullet in his head and left him in a ditch. This is between our families. It ends when I say it ends."

He nodded at the man next to him.

The man pulled a laptop from his bag.

Opened it.

Turned the screen toward us.

It was a live feed.

From the safe house.

Rico was on the floor, tied to a chair, his face covered in blood.

Two men stood over him.

And one of them was holding Mia.

She was crying, her tiny face red, her arms flailing.

My blood turned to ice.

"No," I breathed.

Vito smiled.

"You thought I didn’t know about the safe house? You thought I didn’t know about the baby? I know everything, Dominic. Every move you make. Every breath you take. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to put down your guns. You’re going to let my men tie you up. And then I’m going to kill you. Slowly. Right in front of your little girlfriend here. And then I’m going to kill the baby. And then I’m going to kill her. And when I’m done? The Walker name will be gone. Forever."

He paused.

"Or..." He tapped the arm of the chair. "You give me the files. The ones Lila stole. The ones your little cop husband hid. You give them to me, and I let the baby live. I let her live. I let Rico live. You and your sister and your men can walk out of here. You leave Chicago. You never come back. Do we have a deal?"

Dominic’s jaw tightened.

I looked at the screen.

Mia was screaming now, her voice so loud it came through the laptop speakers.

The man holding her shook her.

Hard.

She went quiet.

Her eyes rolled back.

"Stop it!" I screamed. "I’ll give you the files! Just stop hurting her!"

Vito held up a hand.

The man stopped.

Mia started crying again, soft and weak.

"Good," Vito said. "Where are they?"

"In the storage unit safe," I said. "The combination is 12-24-09. Mark’s wedding anniversary. The files are inside. All of them. Every last one."

Vito nodded at one of his men.

"Go get them," he said.

The man left the room.

Vito looked back at us.

"Now, put down your guns," he said. "Or the baby dies right now."

Dominic looked at me.

His eyes were desperate.

I nodded.

Slowly, he lowered his gun.

Set it on the floor.

Our two men did the same.

Vito smiled.

"Pick them up," he said to his men.

Two men stepped forward.

They bent down to grab the guns.

That was when all hell broke loose.

The windows exploded.

Gunshots.

From outside.

From the helicopters we’d hidden in the clouds, waiting for the signal.

Vito’s men screamed, spinning around, firing at the windows.

Dominic dove for his gun.

I dove behind the couch.

Our two men opened fire, taking down three Moretti men before they could react.

Bullets flew everywhere.

Glass shattered.

Furniture flipped over.

I looked at the laptop.

The man holding Mia had dropped his gun, diving for cover.

Mia was on the floor, crying, alone.

Rico was struggling against his ropes.

I grabbed the gun from my ankle.

I aimed at the laptop.

Fired.

The screen went black.

I stood up, firing at the Moretti men, one after another, until my gun was empty.

Dominic was next to me in a second, handing me his spare.

"Come on!" he screamed. "We have to get to Mia! Now!"

We ran for the door.

Sofia and Jax were already in the hall, their guns blazing, having fought their way up the stairs when they heard the shooting.

"Moretti’s men are everywhere!" Sofia screamed. "We have to get out of here now!"

"The safe house!" I screamed. "They have Mia! They’re going to kill her!"

We ran down the stairs, jumping steps three at a time, firing at any Moretti man who got in our way.

We piled into the cars, Dominic slamming the gas, tires screeching, running every red light between downtown and Lincoln Park.

I called Rico’s phone.

It rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

"Rico!" I screamed when he answered. "Are you okay? Where’s Mia?"

His voice was weak.

Gasping.

"I got loose," he said. "I shot both of them. Mia’s okay. She’s in my arms. She’s okay. But Emily? There are more men coming. A dozen of them. They’re surrounding the house. I can’t hold them off forever."

"We’re five minutes out," Dominic said, grabbing the phone. "Lock the panic room. Don’t open it for anyone but me. You hear me? Anyone. Not the cops. Not the neighbors. Nobody. We’re coming."

He hung up.

He pushed the gas pedal harder.

The speedometer hit 120.

We weaved through traffic, cars swerving to get out of our way, horns blaring.

Four minutes.

Three.

Two.

We turned onto the street of the safe house.

It was full of black SUVs.

Men with guns were running up the steps of the brownstone, firing at the windows.

Dominic didn’t slow down.

He hit the gas.