The black metal glinted in the moonlight.

“Stay behind me,” he whispered.

We stepped back out onto the landing.

The house was silent again, but the air felt heavy.

“Elias,” Roman spoke softly into his collar microphone. “We have company. Report.”

Only static answered him.

“Elias, do you copy?” Roman muttered.

Still, nothing but the hiss of the dead channel.

Roman’s jaw tightened.

“The perimeter is compromised,” he said.

“Where is Elias?” I asked.

“We’re going to find out,” Roman said.

He led me toward the back of the hallway, where a narrow set of stairs led to the kitchen.

We walked silently, our boots making no sound on the old runner rug.

We reached the kitchen door.

The room was dark, smelled of old grease and damp plaster.

Through the window, I saw the headlights of two black SUVs idling in the driveway.

Men in dark tactical gear were moving around the side of the house.

“They aren’t my men,” Roman whispered, his eyes narrowing.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Moretti’s people,” he said. “The Chicago syndicate.”