work. “That bastard’s child? Dante Russo’s?” “It’s mine,” I said. “And you will never touch us.” Suddenly, the building rumbled. A loud crash echoed from the upper floor, followed by the sound of splintering wood and shattered glass. Shouts echoed through the warehouse above us. “What was that?” Evelyn gasped, looking up at the ceiling. Marcus’s face drained of color. “They found us,” Marcus whispered. The sound of rapid gunfire erupted from the floor above, muffled by the thick concrete ceiling. Heavy boots began to stomp across the floorboards directly over our heads. “He’s here,” I said. Marcus looked at me, a desperate, wild expression in his eyes. He didn’t look at the gun anymore; he looked at the cellar stairs, realizing his exit was blocked. Evelyn lunged for the pile of iron pipes, but I fired a shot into the floor near her feet. The loud bang echoed deafeningly in the small cellar. She screamed and dropped to her knees, covering her ears. “Don’t move,” I warned her. Above us, the cellar door at the top of the stairs creaked. The beam of a powerful flashlight cut through the darkness of the hallway, sweeping down the wooden steps. A shadow fell over the entrance, tall and imposing. “Alessia!” a deep, familiar voice called out through the smoke and noise.