Chapter 1 - The Wish Beneath the Table
The first person to wish Declan Rourke a happy birthday was a five-year-old girl hiding under his dining-room table.
The second was his half-brother, who called thirty seconds later to tell him he should have died with their father.
I was standing ten feet away when both things happened. And at that moment, I still believed the worst problem in my life was the eviction notice folded inside my purse.
I was wrong.
By midnight, men would be hunting us through the underground rooms of Declan Rourke’s mansion, my son would be holding pressure against a bullet wound, and I would learn that the smiling man in Declan’s family photographs had spent three years planning to destroy him. But at seven forty-eight that evening, all I knew was that my daughter had broken the single rule I had begged her to obey.
Stay hidden.
“Sophie,” I whispered.
Her blond head appeared beneath the edge of the enormous walnut table. She looked at me as if I were the unreasonable one.
“But, Mom,” she whispered back, “he looks lonely.”
I nearly dropped the silver tray in my hands. At the far end of the dining room sat Declan Rourke. Forty-two years old. Black suit. White shirt. No tie. A glass of bourbon untouched beside one hand. He owned the limestone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan, the private road leading to it, three logistics companies, two construction firms, several nightclubs, and—according to every whispered rumor I had heard since taking the housekeeping job—half the criminal business moving through Chicago’s South Side.
My supervisor had used simple words: Never stare at Mr. Rourke. Never ask him questions. And whatever you hear in that house, forget it before you get home.
I had followed those rules for six months. Then my babysitter canceled on the worst possible day. My eight-year-old son, Mason, had a teacher-development day. Sophie’s kindergarten class had been dismissed early. My ex-husband, Travis, had disappeared eleven months earlier after emptying our savings account, leaving me with two children, unpaid credit cards, and a landlord who had finally stopped accepting promises.
So I brought my children to Declan Rourke’s house. I hid them in an unused morning room beside the servants’ staircase. They lasted three hours. Then Sophie heard Frank Sinatra playing softly from the dining room speakers.
Now she was crawling out from under the table. In one hand she held the last chocolate cupcake from the plastic grocery-store package I had bought after work. A crooked yellow candle was pushed into the frosting.
“Are you having a birthday?” Sophie asked softly.
Declan turned his head slowly. “What makes you think that?”
“Mrs. Alvarez said the cooks made you steak because it was your birthday. You need a candle.”
Something flashed across Declan’s face. Not anger. Pain.
Before anyone could speak, the double doors flew open. Mason ran into the room, his face white. “Mom! There are men outside. With guns.”
Declan stood so fast his chair scraped violently across the marble. He reached beneath his jacket, drawing a heavy matte-black pistol.
Then his phone rang. The screen displayed one name: Nolan.
Declan answered, setting it on speaker. “Nolan.”
“Happy birthday, big brother,” a smooth voice echoed. “Dad was sentimental. That was his weakness. Tonight, I’m finally correcting his mistake.”
A distant crack echoed outside. Then another. The grand mansion lights died, plunging the room into darkness before emergency red strips flickered along the perimeter walls.
“Get your children behind the stone fireplace!” Declan ordered, his voice transforming into pure iron.
Glass exploded downstairs. Rapid boots echoed on the grand staircase.
Nolan’s voice sneered through the speaker. “You know what Dad said the night before he died? He said you were too much like our mother. Too soft underneath all that rage.”
Gunfire erupted in the outer corridor. Yet amidst the terror, Sophie stepped forward. She held up the trembling cupcake.
“You didn’t make your wish,” she whispered.
Declan froze. He looked at the child, then at the dark hallway, and knelt. “What’s your name?”
“Sophie.”
“Listen to me, Sophie. You, your brother, and your mother stay right behind me.”
“Are you scared?” she asked softly.
May you like
Declan Rourke looked into the dark hallway where armed assassins were advancing. “Yes,” he said quietly. “But they’re going to have to get through me first.”
The dining-room doors burst inward. And Declan fired.
