It was Isabella Vale.

She held a sleek, silver pistol with a silencer attached to the barrel.

“Step away from her, Camille,” Isabella said, her voice completely devoid of emotion.

Camille slowly raised her hands, her face twisted in a mixture of rage and terror.

“Isabella,” Camille spat. “You are a dead woman.”

“Perhaps,” Isabella replied. “But not today.”

One of the tactical men rushed forward and sliced through the zip-ties on my wrists with a utility knife.

The thick plastic snapped, and blood rushed back into my hands with a stinging heat.

I rubbed my raw wrists, looking up at Isabella.

“Where are they?” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “My babies.”

“They are safe, Maya,” Isabella said, keeping her weapon trained on Camille. “We have them.”

She gestured to her men.

“Secure Camille,” Isabella ordered. “We leave now.”

We hurried up the stairs, leaving Camille in the custody of Isabella’s guards.

The cold Chicago air hit my face like a slap as we emerged into a dark alleyway.

A black utility van stood idling, its headlights turned off.