The attic room was cold, the chill seeping through the cracked floorboards as if winter itself lived in the foundations of the mansion.

Panic seized my chest like a vise, but I forced myself to breathe through my nose, keeping silent. I was locked in a pantry with three armed mercenaries just ten feet away. If I made a sound, if I so much as gasped, it would be over.

Think, Emma. Think.

The estate security was compromised. Someone inside had given them access to the service entrance. My mind flashed to Julian—would he go so far as to let Moretti’s men inside to get rid of me? Or had Moretti simply bought off one of the perimeter guards?

It didn't matter. I had to survive.

I looked around the dark pantry. On the shelf beside me sat heavy iron cast pans, glass jars of olive oil, and a small box of kitchen matches.

The three men moved out of the kitchen, their footsteps fading toward the grand hallway.

"Check the West Wing first," one of them ordered quietly. "That's where Vance keeps her."

I knew the layout of this mansion better than anyone—I had spent three months cleaning every inch of it. I knew the secret service passages built into the walls during the Prohibition era, passages the guards rarely used and guests never knew existed.

Moving with absolute silence, I stepped out of the pantry. I grabbed a heavy bottle of olive oil and a box of matches from the counter.

I hurried to the back of the kitchen where a small, unassuming wooden panel was built into the pantry wall—a dumbwaiter shaft originally used to haul linen to the upper floors. It was small, but I was petite enough to fit.

I squeezed inside the narrow shaft, pulling the wooden panel shut just as I heard heavy footsteps returning to the kitchen.

"Kitchen is clear! Moving to the second floor!" a guard yelled.

I scrambled up the wooden rungs inside the dark shaft, my fingers digging into the old wood, dust filling my lungs. Pain shot through my knees, but adrenaline drowned it out. I climbed two stories until I reached the service access panel that opened into Gabriel’s private study on the top floor.

I pushed the panel open and tumbled out onto the carpet of the study.

I was breathing heavily, my heart hammering against my ribs. I ran to Gabriel’s desk. There was a landline phone, but when I picked it up, there was no dial tone. The lines had been cut.

I opened the top drawer of his desk. Gabriel kept a spare emergency satellite phone hidden beneath a false bottom. I ripped the wooden lining away, grabbed the sleek black phone, and dialed Gabriel’s direct encrypted number.

It rang once. Twice.

"Emma?" Gabriel’s voice barked through the speaker, tight with immediate alarm. "Are you alright? Why are you calling on this line?"

"Gabriel! They're in the house!" I cried out, keeping my voice down to a harsh whisper. "Moretti’s men! They breached the service entrance! They're looking for me!"

There was a sudden, violent shatter of glass on Gabriel’s end, followed by the muffled sound of gunfire and shouting.

"Emma, listen to me!" Gabriel’s voice came back, cold, furious, and sharp as a razor. "They staged a fire at the docks to pull my main team away! I am already in the car heading back! I am five minutes away!"

"They are on the second floor, Gabriel! They are coming up to the penthouse!"

"Lock yourself in the vault behind my wardrobe in the bedroom!" Gabriel ordered, the roar of the SUV’s engine audible through the phone line. "The door is solid steel. The code is 0-4-1-2. Do not open it for anyone but me! I am coming, Emma! Hang on!"

The call disconnected.

I sprinted out of the study and into the master bedroom. I ran to the massive walk-in wardrobe, pushing past silk suits and dresses until I reached the back wall. I slid a wooden panel aside, revealing a heavy steel digital safe door—a panic room.

My fingers trembled violently as I reached for the keypad. 0-4-1-2.

Suddenly, a loud BANG echoed from the study.

"She’s in here! I found the opened panel!" a voice shouted from the bedroom doorway.

I turned around, horror striking my core. One of the mercenaries—a tall, scarred man with a suppressed pistol—stepped into the wardrobe, blocking my only exit.

"Well, well," the man sneered, raising his gun. "Donathan Moretti sends his regards, little maid."

There was no time to enter the code. No time to hide.

Refusing to be a helpless victim ever again, I grabbed heavy crystal perfume bottles from the vanity beside me and hurled them with all my strength straight at his face.

The heavy glass smashed directly against his eye, shattering on impact. The man screamed in pain, staggering backward, clutching his bleeding face, his gun dropping to the floor.

Before he could recover, I lunged forward, kicked the gun under the heavy wardrobe, and ran past him toward the bedroom door.

"Get back here, you bitch!" he roared, grabbing the tail of my robe.

I ripped myself out of the robe, leaving him holding the fabric, and sprinted out into the top floor hallway.

At that exact moment, the grand glass skylight above the main staircase exploded downward in a shower of lethal glass shards.