Mafia Boss’s Son Screamed in Pain at Midnight

Six hundred miles away, inside the cabin of a private Gulfstream jet bouncing through violent turbulence over Lake Michigan, Dominic Costello held a satellite phone to his ear.

The line was dead, filled with the howling static of the storm. But three minutes ago, a low-band frequency alert had triggered the tactical console in the cockpit. The message had been brief, broken by interference, but the voice had been unmistakable.

Fiona.

Dominic’s face, usually an unreadable mask of stone, tightened until the muscles in his jaw stood out like iron cables. Opposite him, Marco, his second-in-command, watched his boss's eyes turn the color of winter ice.

"Turn the plane around," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a register that made the cabin air feel instantly colder.

"Boss?" Marco looked startled. "The Chicago airport is under a flash flood warning. They’re diverting all inbound traffic to Indianapolis."

"I don't care if the runway is underwater. Tell the pilot to land the plane at O'Hare, or I will shoot him and land it myself." Dominic stood up, his massive frame steady despite the rolling motion of the aircraft. He pulled a customized Sig Sauer 9mm from his shoulder holster, checked the chamber with a practiced, lethal click, and slammed it back into place. "Victoria crossed the line."

"What happened?"

"She tried to kill my son. She used Reed." Dominic turned toward the cockpit door. "And they're hunting the nurse."

Marco was already on his feet, pulling a heavy tactical radio from his belt. "If Victoria has the house locked down, she’s using her family’s muscle from the north side. Our guys on the perimeter might already be compromised."

"Then we don't go in through the gates," Dominic said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion but vibrating with a terrifying promise of violence. "We go in through the walls."

Back in the mansion's limestone basement, Fiona heard the heavy thud of boots directly above her head. The ceiling of the passage was the floor of the library. They had found the blood on the floor near the broken lamp, and it was only a matter of time before they noticed the missing volumes behind the history section.

"Look for a latch!" Victoria’s voice drifted down through the cracks in the old timber. She sounded frantic now, the poised, elegant lady of the house replaced by a desperate conspirator who knew her window of opportunity was closing. "The nurse is poisoned; she can't have carried him far. If Dominic gets back before they are both dead, none of us leave this property alive."

Fiona looked down at Arthur. The boy was conscious again, his icy blue eyes fixed on her face with absolute clarity. The atropine had given him a temporary reprieve, but his skin was still gray, his lips tinged with blue.

"Fiona," he whispered, his small fingers catching the edge of her undershirt. "Are you going to die?"

"No," she said, forcing a smile through lips that felt like wood. "Nurses don't die on duty, Arthur. It's against the rules."

"My stepmother... she hates me because I look like my mom."

"I know, baby."

"But Daddy loves me."

"He loves you more than anything," Fiona said, her voice cracking for the first time. She could feel the poison reaching her diaphragm now; each breath took a conscious effort of her chest muscles. She had to move. If they stayed in this room, they were rats in a trap.

She stood up, her right leg buckling slightly before she caught herself against the limestone wall. She lifted Arthur with her one good arm, cradling him against her side like a football, using her dead left arm as a clumsy brace to keep him from slipping.

At the far end of the basement room was a low, iron grate that led into the mansion's old coal cellar, which opened out into the sunken garden near the greenhouses. It was an exposed route, but it was the only way out of the main structure.

She dragged herself toward the grate, her breath coming in short, agonizing wheezes.