The sun had barely begun to carve its pale, gray light through the smog of the inner-city districts when I stepped out of the heavy iron gates of the Hayes estate.

“Down! On the floor, now!”

The lead intruder shouted the command with military precision, raising a suppressed submachine gun directly toward Liam.

“Liam, run!” I screamed, diving behind the kitchen counter as a flurry of silenced pops echoed through the tiny apartment. Splinters of wood exploded from the cabinets inches from my face.

Liam froze like a deer in headlights, paralyzed by terror, before a heavy boot caught him in the chest, sending him crashing backward over the coffee table. He groaned, clutching his ribs as one of the masked men pinned him to the floor with a knee to his spine.

“Check the back!” the leader barked.

I didn't think. Survival instinct—honed by months of enduring the grueling demands of the Hayes estate and protecting my reckless brother—took over. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the heavy industrial-strength bottle of concentrated ammonia-based glass cleaner Mrs. Daley had forced me to carry for window maintenance.

When footsteps rounded the corner of the kitchen, I twisted the nozzle and hurled the entire bottle straight into the intruder's face.

“Aghhh! My eyes!” the man shrieked, dropping his weapon as the caustic chemical burned into his retinas, blinding him instantly.

I scrambled over the linoleum floor, slipping on the spilled cleaner, and bolted for the shattered front door. The hallway outside was dim and smelled of rotting garbage and damp concrete. I threw myself down the stairwell, my sneakers pounding against the metal steps two at a time.

Tap, tap, tap.

Footsteps echoed behind me. Someone was descending fast.

“Catch her! Don't let her reach the street!”

I burst through the heavy metal fire exit door into the blinding morning sunlight of the alleyway. The roar of city traffic felt miles away. I turned left toward the main avenue, my lungs burning, my legs screaming for mercy.

A dark van screeched to a halt right in front of me, cutting off my path.

Before I could turn around, a pair of strong, calloused hands grabbed me by the shoulders. I opened my mouth to scream, but a heavy leather glove clamped firmly over my mouth, suffocating the sound.

“Quiet, Emily,” a familiar, gravelly voice hissed in my ear.

Paul Marino pulled me backward into the dark, shadowed interior of the van. The doors slammed shut behind us, and the vehicle peeled rubber, shooting down the alley just as two armed men rounded the corner behind us, guns raised.

I slumped against the van seat, gasping for air, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Paul sat across from me, his face carved from stone. He didn't look angry; he looked intensely focused, tapping a encrypted satellite phone against his knee.

“You okay?” Paul asked tersely.

I nodded mutely, wiping a streak of soot and dust from my cheek. “They... they were in our apartment. They had guns, Paul. They pinned Liam down—I don't even know if Liam is—"

“Your brother is being extracted as we speak,” Paul interrupted, his tone completely flat. “Along with all the other loose ends in your neighborhood. Orders from the top.”

I stared at him, my breath catching. “Orders from Victor?”

“The boss said you weren't safe outside the estate anymore,” Paul replied, glancing out the rearview mirror to check if we were being followed. “Someone leaked that you were in the study when the assassination attempt happened. Word travels fast in the syndicate. If you stayed in that apartment twenty minutes longer, you’d be floating in the river.”

The reality of the situation washed over me in a cold wave. I wasn't just a maid working off a debt anymore. I was a witness. A loose end. A target.

“Where are we going?” I whispered.