The tires of the black sedan crunched over the wet gravel.

I stared out the window at the towering iron gates of the Blackwell estate.

The gray Chicago sky hung low, threatening more rain.

My wedding dress felt heavy, the stiff lace scratching against my collarbone.

I was not a bride because of love.

I was a transaction, handed over to settle my father Arthur’s massive debts.

The car stopped in front of the stone manor.

A man stood on the wide stone porch, sheltered from the autumn drizzle.

Roman Blackwell.

His dark coat was buttoned to the chin, his face carved from shadow and stone.

He did not offer me a hand as I stepped out of the vehicle.

“Welcome to your new home, Lena,” Roman said.

His voice was low, carrying the weight of the city’s dark underbelly.

“Is this where you keep the people you buy?” I asked.

A faint smile touched his lips, but his eyes remained cold.

“This is where you are safe,” he replied.

Before I could step onto the porch, a sharp crack echoed through the courtyard.

The rear window of the sedan shattered into a thousand tiny crystals.

“Get down!” Roman roared.

He threw his weight against me, slamming us both onto the stone steps.

Another gunshot chipped the stone pillar above my head, raining white dust onto my hair.

Roman pulled a heavy black handgun from beneath his coat.

He fired three rapid shots toward the dark pine trees at the edge of the lawn.

“Mara! Lock the rear entrance!” Roman yelled into a small radio clipped to his collar.

The housekeeper’s voice crackled back with a brief confirmation.

He grabbed my wrist with a grip like iron.

He dragged me inside the foyer, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind us with a dull thud.

We ran down a narrow hallway, past oil paintings of grim ancestors and marble busts.

He pressed a brass sconce shaped like a lion’s head on the wall.

A section of the wood paneling swung inward with a heavy click.

He shoved me inside the dark opening and stepped in behind me.