THE MAFIA BOSS WAS DYING OF A MYSTERIOUS ILLNESS—UNTIL HIS NEW NURSE KNOCKED THE SYRINGE FROM HIS FIANCÉE’S HAND AND EXPOSED A SICKENING SECRET

The convoy moved through the deserted industrial streets of Chicago like a pack of wolves in the dark.

Three black, unmarked SUVs glided past the rusted warehouses of the Calumet River basin, their headlights cut, navigating purely by the pale reflection of the moonlight on the fresh snow.

I sat in the back of the lead vehicle, squeezed between Dante’s massive bulk and two heavy tactical supply crates. Luca sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield, a customized automatic rifle resting between his knees.

His vitals were stable, but I had insisted on taping a continuous glucose monitor sensor to his upper arm before we left the penthouse. The receiver was in my pocket, vibrating quietly every five minutes to give me real-time updates.

*112 mg/dL.* Good. The complex carbohydrates I had forced him to eat before we left were holding.

“Dock 42,” Dante whispered into his headset. “Yacht is docked at the end of the pier. Engine exhaust visible. She’s getting ready to cast off.”

“Guards?” Luca asked without turning his head.

“At least eight on the perimeter,” Dante replied. “Valenti heavies from the Detroit faction. High-caliber hardware. They’re expecting company, but they’re watching the main gate.”

“We don’t use the gate,” Luca said. “We take the maintenance catwalk from the grain silos. Cut their line of retreat.”

The SUV rolled to a silent stop behind a row of abandoned shipping containers fifty yards from the water. The wind off Lake Michigan was brutal, screaming through the rusted iron structures with sub-zero venom.

Luca turned around in his seat, looking at me.

“You stay in the vehicle with the driver, Emma,” he commanded. “If shots are fired, you do not move until Dante gives the all-clear. Do you understand?”

“Keep your heart rate under control, Luca,” I replied, not backing down from his gaze. “If that receiver in my pocket starts beeping, I’m coming out there with an epinephrine syringe whether you like it or not.”

A shadow of respect crossed his hardened face. He nodded once, then stepped out into the freezing night, his coat billowing in the wind. Dante and six heavily armed soldiers melted into the darkness behind him.

Inside the SUV, the only sound was the low, muffled idle of the engine and the breathing of the driver, a quiet soldier named Leo whose knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

Five minutes passed. The silence was agonizing.

I pulled the receiver from my pocket.

*104 mg/dL.*

Then *98 mg/dL.*

The stress was eating through his glucose reserves faster than normal. The cold weather forced his body into thermogenesis, burning glycogen just to keep his core temperature stable.

Suddenly, a muffled *thump* echoed across the water.

Then another.

A flare hissed into the night sky, bathing the entire dock in a sickly, brilliant crimson light.

*Gunfire.*

It wasn't the disciplined, suppressed shooting from the penthouse. This was an all-out, savage war. Heavy machine guns chewed through the metal siding of the shipping containers. Muzzle flashes strobed like strobe lights along the yacht’s upper deck.

“Boss is pinned down near the crane!” Leo shouted, listening to his earpiece. “They had a heavy .50 caliber mounted on the stern! Dante took shrapnel!”

My monitor receiver buzzed violently against my palm.

I looked down.

*Alert: Rapid Fall Detected.*

*Current reading: 54 mg/dL.*

His liver was failing to compensate. The sudden surge of combat adrenaline had triggered a massive counter-regulatory crash. If he dropped below forty while trapped under heavy fire, he wouldn't be able to aim. He wouldn't be able to run. He would freeze to death in the snow before a bullet even touched him.

“Unlock the doors,” I said.

“No way!” Leo barked, drawing his sidearm. “Mr. Moretti said—!”

I didn't argue. I grabbed the heavy tactical flashlight from the door pocket and smashed the heavy aluminum bezel directly against the side of Leo’s temple.

He groaned, slumping against the steering wheel, dazed and disoriented.

I reached over, hit the central lock release, kicked the door open, and threw myself into the biting, sub-zero gale.

The wind nearly knocked me off my feet. Bullets snapped through the air above my head with the terrifying *crack-whiz* of supersonic lead.

I stayed low, keeping my body pressed against the rusted corrugated steel of the shipping containers, running toward the loading crane where the crimson flare was dying out.

Ten yards ahead, slumped behind a pile of frozen wooden pallets, was Dante.

The giant was on one knee, holding his left shoulder, which was soaked in dark blood. His rifle was on the ground.

“Emma?!” Dante roared over the din of gunfire. “What the f— are you doing here?!”

“Where is he?!” I screamed, sliding on the ice to crash beside him.

Dante pointed with his bloody chin toward the base of the crane, thirty feet closer to the yacht.

Luca was there.

He was leaning heavily against a steel girder, his assault rifle hanging loosely in his left hand. His knees were buckling. His head was tilted back against the rusted iron, his chest heaving in erratic, spasmodic gasps.

His eyes were completely rolled back.