Four months after I spent one unforgettable night with a stranger, my best friend stood beside Chicago's most feared mafia boss and announced she was carrying his baby. I was holding a mop when she ordered security to throw me out, unaware that **the baby growing inside me was actually his.**

The rain fell in sheets, stinging my face like needles as I scrambled backward onto the slick asphalt.

"Stay back, Sutton!" I yelled, brandishing my heavy canvas tote like a club. "Delia’s insane! She's lying to Dante Moretti! If he finds out—"

"He won't find out," Sutton sneered, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me. The blade caught the sickly orange glare of the alley streetlights. "Delia’s carrying the Moretti heir. In three weeks, they’re getting married at the cathedral. Once she’s the Don’s wife, I become the head of logistics for the entire South Side docks. You really think I’m gonna let a pathetic little maid and her half-dead sister ruin a hundred-million-dollar syndicate deal?"

*So that was it.*

Sutton hadn't just been my predatory boss; he was Delia’s co-conspirator. Four months ago, they had conspired to drug Dante Moretti at his own hotel. When Dante miraculously survived because of my intervention, Delia had pivoted with terrifying ruthlessness. She had stolen the credit. She had claimed she was the girl in the room. And now, she was faking a pregnancy—or worse, carrying another man's baby to seal the throne.

"You touch me, Sutton, and Dante will tear you apart," I bluffed, clutching my stomach instinctively through my damp coat. "He looked at me in that ballroom. He *knows* something isn't right."

Sutton paused, a flicker of doubt passing through his eyes. But his jaw tightened quickly. "He doesn't know a damn thing. And dead girls don't whisper secrets."

He lunged.

Adrenaline surged through my veins. Instead of swinging my bag, I ducked beneath his outstretched arm, drove the heel of my steel-toed work boot directly down onto his instep, and hurled the tote bag straight into his face.

Sutton grunted in pain, stumbling back against the sedan’s hood.

I didn't look back. I bolted down the alley, dashed across Michigan Avenue through blaring horns and swerving yellow cabs, and dove down the concrete stairs into the subway station just as the train doors slid open.

I collapsed onto the grimy plastic seat, chest heaving, my clothes soaked through. My hands trembled violently against my lap. I closed my eyes and pressed both palms against my abdomen.

*Hang on, little one,* I whispered silently. *Mommy is going to save Nell, and then we’re leaving this city forever.*

Twenty minutes later, I burst through the automatic sliding doors of Saint Jude Children's Hospital. The sharp smell of bleach and antiseptic grounded my spinning head.

I ran toward the elevator bank, hitting the button for the tenth floor—Pediatric Cardiac Care.

When the doors dinged open on Ten, the hallway was eerily quiet. A nurse I didn't recognize was seated at the reception desk, typing idly on a terminal.

"Marin?"

I spun around.

Standing outside Room 1014 was Dr. Robert Chen, Nell’s lead pediatric surgeon. His face was pale, his stethoscope hanging limp around his neck.

"Dr. Chen," I gasped, wiping rain from my forehead. "Is Nell okay? Please tell me she's okay."

"She’s resting, Marin," Dr. Chen said, his voice laced with uncharacteristic hesitation. "Her vitals are stable for now. But... we have a major problem."

"What problem?"

He led me into a small consultation room and shut the door behind us. On the desk lay Nell’s medical chart, stamped with an alarming red seal: **DISCHARGE / TRANSFER PENDING.**

"Thirty minutes ago, our hospital administration received an executive order," Dr. Chen said in a hushed whisper. "The private donor who was subsidizing Nell’s experimental catheterization protocol revoked all funding. Worse, they’ve flagged her account for non-payment of arrears. Under state regulations, she’s being transferred to Cook County General at eight o’clock tomorrow morning."

"No!" I choked out, tears finally breaking free. "Cook County doesn't have the specialized pediatric bypass machines! She won't survive forty-eight hours without the continuous prostaglandin drip!"

"I know, Marin," Dr. Chen said, looking down at his desk in shame. "I fought it. But the directive came from the board of directors. The order was signed personally by Delia Marsh, designated power-of-attorney trustee for the Moretti Foundation."

My knees buckled. I caught the edge of the desk to keep from falling.

Delia wasn't just threatening Nell’s life. She was executing the death sentence in real time. She was cutting off Nell's air from behind a mahogany boardroom desk without ever having to dirty her own hands.

"There is one other thing," Dr. Chen added, his voice dropping even lower. He pulled a thick, sealed manila envelope from beneath the medical charts. "Two men in dark suits dropped this off ten minutes before you arrived. They said it was for you."

My fingers shook as I tore open the seal.

Inside was a single keycard to a private penthouse at the Elysian Tower, a brand-new iPhone, and a handwritten note in sharp, elegant calligraphy:

*You lied to me in the ballroom, little ghost.*

*If you want your sister to live past sunrise, come alone.*