The night I came home early from New York, I expected to surprise my pregnant wife with

By three o'clock in the morning, I had Claire moved out of Northwestern through the underground ambulance bay.

I didn't trust the hospital security, nor did I trust the Chicago police department—Eleanor donated millions annually to the police foundation and counted the superintendent among her personal bridge partners. There was only one person in this city whose loyalty could not be bought by Blake money: Marcus Vance.

Marcus was my former college roommate, a former Marine scout sniper who now ran a private corporate security and counter-surveillance firm based out of an unassuming brick warehouse in the West Loop.

When my Audi pulled into the warehouse's reinforced bay, the steel rolling shutter immediately slammed shut behind us. Marcus was waiting, wearing a black tactical sweater, a sidearm strapped to his chest, and an unreadable expression.

"You look like hell, Blake," Marcus said, his gravelly voice cutting through the cold garage.

"I need your secure suite on the third floor," I said, stepping out of the car and opening the rear door. "And I need your medical team. Claire was poisoned tonight."

Marcus didn't ask questions. He signaled two female paramedics on his payroll who gently transferred Claire into a wheelchair, hooking her back up to portable monitors and IV fluids before wheeling her into the freight elevator.

Once Claire was settled in the fortified living quarters upstairs—monitored around the clock by Vance’s private trauma nurse—Marcus led me into his tactical operations room. Bank upon bank of surveillance screens cast a cool, blue light across the room.

"Talk to me," Marcus said, pouring two fingers of bourbon into a tumbler and sliding it across the metal desk.

I ignored the drink. "Eleanor tried to terminate Claire's pregnancy tonight using Croft. She forced an abortifacient into her system. The baby is holding on, but Croft admitted there’s a hidden codicil to my father’s will at the Lake Forest estate. It proves Eleanor has been defrauding the family trust and executing corporate embezzlement."

Marcus took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes narrowing. "Lake Forest is a fortress, Ethan. Eleanor has round-the-clock private security provided by Aegis Global. You can't just kick the front door in."

"I don't have to kick the door in," I replied. "The annual Blake Global Shareholder Gala and Board Meeting is tomorrow night at eight. The estate will be swarming with three hundred guests, catering staff, valet drivers, and journalists. Eleanor won't dare lock down the property during the event—it would raise too many questions after rumors of my sudden return."

"And while she's playing the grand matriarch downstairs, you want to breach the master study upstairs and crack her safe," Marcus deduced, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.

"Not just crack the safe," I said. "I’m going to take the original will, Croft’s digital confession, and the toxicology report from Northwestern, and present them directly to the board of directors in front of every media camera in Chicago."

Before Marcus could answer, the security console on his desk chimed shrilly with a red alert.

Marcus tapped the keyboard, and four external camera feeds flashed onto the main monitor.

Outside the unassuming West Loop warehouse, three black Cadillac Escalades with heavily tinted windows had pulled up to the curb. Men in dark suits were stepping out, their jackets hanging slightly open to reveal concealed holsters.

Leading them was Eleanor’s chief of personal security, a ruthless ex-mercenary named Viktor Cross.

"They tracked your car," Marcus said calmly, drawing his sidearm from its holster and racking the slide. "Your Audi’s onboard GPS is registered under Blake Global's corporate fleet."

I cursed under my breath, my hands balling into fists. "I was an idiot. I didn't think to pull the fuse."

"Doesn't matter," Marcus said, hitting an alarm switch beneath his desk. Red emergency lights began pulsing silently down the corridors. "They don't know what this facility is. They think it's a standard storage garage. They're about to find out it's a hardened compound."

Upstairs, the freight elevator pinged.

Claire emerged into the hallway, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, leaning heavily against the private nurse. Her face was pale, but her eyes were ablaze with adrenaline.

"Ethan," she called out, her voice steady. "They're here, aren't they?"

I ran to her side, wrapping an arm around her waist to support her weight. "Claire, you need to be in bed. The baby—"

"The baby is fine," she interrupted fiercely, resting her hand over her abdomen. "I felt him move ten minutes ago. A solid kick, Ethan. He isn't giving up, and neither am I. If your mother wants a war, she isn't going to fight just you. She has to face the woman she tried to slaughter."