The next chapter holds the answer—keep reading to find out.

-5-

The heavy iron gates of the Evanston property swung shut behind the SUV with a deep, hydraulic thud, locking automatically into place. Through the rain-streaked windows, the house looked less like a suburban home and more like a high-security redoubt. Thick, tinted glass windows, discreetly angled security cameras mounted beneath the eaves, and a reinforced steel front door painted a matte charcoal gray spoke volumes about the kind of life Luka Moretti lived.

Luka stepped out into the steady drizzle, opened my door, and shielded us with his broad shoulders as he guided me up the stone steps and into the entryway.

The interior was warm, smelling faintly of seasoned firewood, leather, and dark roast coffee. It was stark, minimalist, and immaculately clean. There were no family photos on the walls, no soft floral prints, no trace of domestic comfort—just dark wood floors, exposed brick accents, and a massive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with heavy legal ledgers, tactical manuals, and technical journals.

“You can lay her down here,” Luka said softly, gesturing toward a plush leather sofa draped with a heavy cashmere blanket near the stone fireplace.

I gently set my sleeping daughter down, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythmic, peaceful pattern. She hadn't woken up once through the hospital escape, the frantic car ride, or the transition into this strange, heavily guarded fortress. I stood over her for a moment, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from her forehead, my heart aching with a fierce, protective ache.

When I turned around, Luka was standing a few feet away, holding a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a thick towel in the other. He silently offered the towel to me.

“You’re shivering,” he noted, his voice devoid of any mockery, carrying only a steady, grounded warmth.

I took the towel, wrapping it around my shoulders, and sank onto the edge of the sofa, keeping one hand resting protectively over my baby.

“Why?” I asked, looking up at him as he stood by the unlit fireplace, the amber light from a desk lamp catching the intricate tattoos winding up his neck. “Why are you doing this, Luka? You’re risking everything—your freedom, your life—to protect me and a baby you don't even know. What do you get out of this?”

Luka walked over, setting the mug of tea on the wooden coffee table before sitting down in an armchair opposite the sofa. He rested his elbows on his knees, clasping his calloused hands together.

“I told you,” Luka said quietly. “Your father saved my life ten years ago. Before he was a plant manager at Reed Chemical, Arthur Reed was an engineer who refused to look the other way when powerful men started cutting corners. When Richard Vance’s enforcers found out I was digging into their illegal waste dumping contracts, they cornered me in an alley behind the docks with a knife and a shallow grave picked out.”

He paused, lifting his left hand slightly. The tattooed skin across his knuckles was slightly puckered, bearing the faint, silvery trace of an old, deep slash scar.

“Arthur happened to be walking back from a late shift at the plant,” Luka continued, his amber eyes darkening with memory. “He stepped between me and three armed men. He didn't have a weapon, but he had a badge from his old days as a municipal inspector, and he threatened to blow the whistle on the entire district if they didn't walk away. They spared me... but they marked him. And the day he found the M-17 files six months later, they made sure he couldn't talk.”

I sat in stunned silence, the tea growing cold on the table between us. The pieces were falling into place, snapping together with the precision of a guillotine blade.

“So you’ve been waiting,” I whispered. “Ten years. Waiting for the right moment to strike back at Richard Vance.”

“Waiting for the right leverage,” Luka corrected, his gaze shifting back to my sleeping daughter. “Richard Vance is untouchable through ordinary legal channels. He owns judges, politicians, and police chiefs across the state of Illinois. If I walked into a federal prosecutor's office with stolen flash drives, his lawyers would bury me under a mountain of espionage charges before the ink dried. To take down a titan, you don't attack his armor. You strike his heir.”

My breath hitched. A cold knot twisted in my stomach.

“Julian,” I breathed.

“Julian Vance is his father’s pride and joy,” Luka said, a dangerous, hard edge returning to his voice. “The sole heir to a three-billion-dollar real estate empire. The golden boy set to take over the board of directors next month. And right now... Julian thinks he’s won. He thinks he successfully discarded his penniless wife and his newborn daughter to marry into old-money society with Chloe Sterling.”

Luka leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his piercing gaze locking onto mine with absolute, uncompromising intensity.

“He thinks he’s untouchable,” Luka repeated. “And by tomorrow morning, we are going to remind him what it feels like to fall from the top of the world.”

Before I could ask what he meant, a sharp, electronic chime rang out from a wall-mounted console near the kitchen. A green light blinked on a sleek digital display panel, accompanied by a synthesized voice: Perimeter sensor triggered. Sector four. Unregistered vehicle approaching the outer gate.

Luka stood up in a single, fluid motion, his entire demeanor shifting instantly from a quiet protector to a lethal, hyper-focused operative. He walked over to the console, tapped a sequence of keys, and a live high-definition security feed popped up on a hidden wall screen.

Parked outside our iron gates, idling in the pouring rain, was a sleek, silver Mercedes-Benz S-Class.