The eighteenth nanny fled Dominic Vale’s mansion with blood running down her forehead, screaming that his four-year-old son was “not right.” A few hours later, that same little boy smashed a bronze statue into my ribs while one of Chicago’s most feared mafia bosses watched from the staircase—but when I looked into Noah’s eyes, I didn’t see a violent child. I saw terror.

The black armored SUV tore through the rain-slicked streets of Chicago at over a hundred miles an hour, flanked by two chase vehicles with flashing blue lights.

Dominic drove with terrifying precision, swerving through traffic, his eyes cold and fixed on the road ahead.

“Power backup at Northwestern should trigger in thirty seconds,” Dominic said, checking his tactical watch. “But if Vincent’s men sabotaged the sub-station, the ICU wing will be running on battery reserves for less than fifteen minutes.”

I clutched my knees, praying silently with every breath. Hold on, Tyler. Please, hold on.

Ten minutes later, we screeched to a halt outside the dark, towering complex of Northwestern Hospital.

The main lobby was in chaos. Emergency lights flickered in dim red hues. Gunfire echoed from the upper floors.

Dominic’s tactical team breached the glass doors first, sweeping the lobby with suppressed submachine guns.

“Floor seven!” Dominic yelled, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stairwell. “Move!”

We sprinted up seven flights of concrete stairs, the sound of heavy boots and radio chatter echoing loudly in the narrow space.

When we hit the seventh floor, the heavy doors opened to a scene of utter mayhem.

Two of Dominic’s guards lay injured near the nurse’s station, while three masked men in tactical gear were attempting to breach the heavy security door leading to Tyler’s private ICU room.