His fingers closed around my daughter’s hand. I called the nurse before his guards could move. Then the comatose man opened his eyes and whispered, “Sofia.”

Our apartment was on the third floor of a weathered brick building in Pilsen, six miles and a world away from the sterile glass towers of St. Adrian’s Hospital. The radiator clanked against the wall, throwing off a dry, radiator heat that smelled faintly of old paint, while rain lashed against the small kitchen window.

I sat at the cracked formica table, watching Lucia color in a picture book with her worn crayons. She was drawing a sun with a yellow crayon, singing under her breath in a quiet, rhythmic lullaby: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

Every time she sang those words, a chill ran down my spine.

My phone rattled against the tabletop. I picked it up instantly. It was an unlisted number.

"Elena?"

I recognized the voice immediately. It was Maria, the night shift supervisor for Environmental Services at St. Adrian’s, and one of the few people in Chicago who had treated me like a human being when I was hired two years ago.

"Maria," I breathed, keeping my voice low. "Is everything okay at the hospital?"

"Where are you right now?" Maria asked, her tone rushed, laced with panic.

"Home. In Pilsen. What happened?"

"Two men came to the Facilities office twenty minutes ago," Maria whispered into the receiver. "They were looking for your employee file, Elena. They wanted your home address, your social security number, and your daughter's school details."

My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. "Did Henderson give it to them?"

"Henderson wasn't here, thank God," Maria said. "I was covering the desk. I told them the records are locked in the HR database until eight in the morning and only the director has the key. But Elena... these weren't ordinary hospital security guards. They were wearing tailored coats, and one of them had a scar running from his ear down to his collar."

Vincent’s men.

"Did you give them anything?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Of course not! I've known you for two years, Elena. I know you're a good mother. I lied and told them you lived in Berwyn. But they're going to come back tomorrow when HR opens. What happened up on the fourth floor today? What did you see?"

"Nothing," I lied, my throat dry. "Lucia was holding Mr. Kane's hand when he woke up. That's all."

"They don't send muscle to hunt down a housekeeper over a hand-hold," Maria said sharply. "Elena, listen to me. Whatever you heard, whatever you saw in that room, forget it. Don't come in for your shift tomorrow. Call in sick. Stay away from the hospital."

"I need this job, Maria," I whispered desperately. "I have rent to pay. I have Lucia's dental bills—"

"You won't be paying any bills if you end up in the Chicago River!" Maria snapped. "Take two days off. Use your personal leave. I'll cover for you with Henderson. Just stay home."

The line went dead.

I set the phone down slowly on the table. My hands were shaking violently now. I looked across the table at Lucia. She had finished coloring the sun and was now drawing a tall man lying in a big square box, with a tiny girl standing beside him holding a little red heart.

"Mama?" she asked, looking up at me. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I love you, sweetie," I said, forced a smile onto my face, stepping around the table to wrap my arms tightly around her small shoulders. "I love you so much."

"I love you too, Mama," she murmured, pressing her face into my scrub tunic. "Is the sick man's brother bad?"

I pulled back slightly, looking at her in surprise. "What do you mean?"

"The man with the cane," Lucia said softly, her dark eyes entirely too perceptive for a six-year-old. "When we were waiting for the elevator, he was standing outside the door. He didn't look happy that the sick man opened his eyes. He looked angry. Like when Tommy dropped his ice cream, but scarier."

Children see the world without the camouflage adults use to hide their sins. They notice the posture of cruelty before we can rationalize it away.

"We aren't going back to the hospital for a few days, Lucia," I told her, kissing her forehead. "We're going to have a stay-at-home weekend. We'll make pancakes, watch movies, and stay right here."

She cheered, clapping her hands together, oblivious to the terror tightening its grip around my throat.

I stood up and walked to the front door, slipping the heavy brass deadbolt into place, then attaching the security chain. I pulled the living room blinds tight, shutting out the dark, rain-soaked street below.

For three years, since my husband, Carlos, died when a scaffolding collapsed on a construction site in West Loop, I had fought tooth and nail to build a safe, peaceful life for my daughter. I didn't want wealth or power. I wanted quiet streets, hot meals, and a door that locked out the cold.

Now, because my daughter had sung a nursery rhyme to a dying mob boss, that fragile safety had been shattered.

I sat on the edge of my sofa, staring at the front door as the rain beat against the glass, holding an iron fire poker across my lap.

I didn't sleep that night. Every time a car pulled up on the street below, every time the old wooden floorboards in the hallway outside creaked, my chest tightened until I couldn't breathe.

By six o'clock Friday morning, the rain had stopped, leaving a cold, heavy fog hanging over the city.

I was in the kitchen, pouring hot water into a mug of instant coffee, when a heavy, rhythmic knock echoed through the small apartment.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Not a polite knock. The solid, unyielding strike of a heavy fist against thin wood.

Lucia jumped in her seat, dropping her spoon into her bowl of cereal.

I froze, the steaming kettle hovering inches above my mug.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Mrs. Reyes," a deep, muffled voice called out from the hallway. "Open the door. We know you're in there."