THE NEW NURSE STOPPED THE MAFIA BOSS’S PRIVATE TREATMENT IN FRONT OF HIS ARMED GUARDS—THEN HIS DOCTOR SAID FIVE WORDS THAT MADE HER BLOOD RUN COLD

I stared at the tiny blue coat lying on the sterile white sheets. It looked so out of place in the sterile hospital room, a bright splash of childhood innocence amidst the monitors and IV stands.

Vincent reached out and touched the sleeve. His hand, which had been shaking so violently just minutes before, was completely steady.

“Where?” Vincent demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

“An old warehouse in the industrial district,” Gabriel replied, pressing a towel to his bleeding shoulder. “Whitmore owns it through a shell company. He’s holding Isabella and Eleanor there, too. He took them after the raid on the mansion.”

I stepped forward. “Vincent, you cannot leave this hospital. Your toxin levels are critical. Without medical support, you’ll go into cardiac arrest before we even cross the city.”

Vincent looked at me. He was already pulling on a dark shirt someone had left on the chair. “Then you’re coming with us.”

“I’m a nurse, not a soldier!” I protested, backing up. “I have a father in a care facility who relies on me. If I get killed—”

“Hannah.” Vincent stopped, turning to face me. He didn’t threaten me. He didn't raise his voice. He looked at me with the desperate eyes of a man who had nothing left to lose. “If you stay here, Whitmore will find you. You know too much. You’ve seen the drawing. Come with me. Keep me on my feet long enough to get my son back. If we survive this, you and your father will never have to worry about a medical bill again for the rest of your lives. You have my word.”

I thought about my father. About the unpaid bills stacked on my kitchen counter. About the sheer terror I had felt running through the mansion. I was already in this, whether I wanted to be or not.

I grabbed a portable emergency medical bag from the supply closet down the hall.

Ten minutes later, we were in the back of Gabriel’s armored SUV, speeding through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago.

I had hooked Vincent up to a portable saline drip, pushing fluids to dilute the neurotoxin in his blood. I constantly checked his pulse. It was erratic, jumping wildly. He was running on pure adrenaline, but his body was failing.

Vincent sat silently, staring at the little blue coat in his lap.

He reached into the pocket of the coat. His fingers brushed against something hard. He pulled it out.

It was a child’s gold identification bracelet.

Vincent’s breath hitched. “I gave this to him on his third birthday.”

He ran his thumb over the gold plate. But then he stopped. He tilted the bracelet toward the streetlights flashing past the window.

“This isn’t Leo’s name,” Vincent whispered, confusion masking his features.

I leaned closer. Engraved on the back of the gold plate, where the child’s name should have been, were numbers.

41.8781° N, 87.6298° W

Gabriel glanced in the rearview mirror. “Those are coordinates.”

“Type them in,” Vincent ordered.

Gabriel punched the numbers into the GPS on the dashboard. The map zoomed in, a red pin dropping onto a specific location.

Gabriel slammed on the brakes. The SUV skidded on the wet pavement, tires screaming before coming to a complete stop in the middle of an empty intersection.

“What is it?” I asked, my heart pounding. “Is it the warehouse?”

Gabriel turned around, his face pale in the glow of the dashboard lights.

“No,” Gabriel said softly. “It’s not the warehouse.”

Vincent looked at the screen. “Then where is it?”

“It’s the cemetery, Boss,” Gabriel whispered. “The coordinates are pointing exactly to Leo’s grave.”

Silence suffocated the car. Only the sound of the wipers slapping against the windshield broke the quiet.

“Whitmore is playing a game,” Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “He wants me to go to the grave.”

“It’s a trap,” I said instantly. “Vincent, you can’t go. It’s an ambush.”

“Drive to the cemetery, Gabriel,” Vincent ordered.

“Boss—”

“Drive!”

When we arrived at the cemetery, the storm had worsened. Rain battered the windshield in sheets. We drove slowly through the winding paths of stone angels and granite mausoleums. We stopped in front of the Moretti family plot.

Vincent stepped out into the freezing rain without a jacket. I followed, carrying the heavy medical bag, my umbrella useless against the wind.

We walked to a small, marble headstone.

Leo Moretti. Beloved Son.

The ground in front of the headstone was disturbed. The grass had been recently dug up and replaced haphazardly.

Vincent fell to his knees in the mud. He started digging with his bare hands.

“Vincent, stop!” I yelled, dropping to my knees beside him, trying to pull his hands away. “You’re straining your heart!”

He ignored me, his fingers tearing through the wet earth. Gabriel grabbed a shovel from the groundskeeper's shed nearby and took over.

Within minutes, the blade struck wood. Not a child's coffin. A small pine box, buried just two feet below the surface.

Gabriel pulled it out and pried the lid open.

Inside was a folded piece of paper and a heavy, silver rosary.

Vincent picked up the paper. It was completely dry, protected by a plastic sleeve. He read it, his chest heaving.

He handed it to me.

The note was written in elegant, doctor’s handwriting.

Did you really think I’d keep him in a warehouse, Vincent? The boy is safe. For now. Bring the nurse to the abandoned chapel on the edge of the grounds. Come alone. Or the next box I bury will have him in it.

I looked down at the box. I reached out and picked up the heavy silver rosary.

It felt cold. But as I turned it over in my hand, I noticed something that made my stomach drop.

The beads weren't just beads. They were small, hollowed-out glass vials. And inside each vial was a milky white liquid.

“Vincent,” I whispered, holding up the rosary. “This is the medication Whitmore was giving you.”