The door clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city.

We drove through the gray, slush-covered streets of Chicago in complete silence.

I stared out the tinted window, watching the familiar, run-down brick buildings of my neighborhood fade away.

The low-income apartments turned into the towering glass-and-steel skyscrapers of the Loop.

We pulled into the underground parking garage of a luxury high-rise overlooking the water.

Another security guard in a dark suit met me at the elevator doors.

He swiped a keycard and pressed the button for the penthouse.

The elevator rose rapidly, making my ears pop in the silence.

When the doors slid open, I stepped directly into Dante Russo’s private residence.

The apartment was vast, dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over Lake Michigan.

The water below was a cold, slate gray.

Dante stood by a massive mahogany desk near the center of the room.

He wore a dark gray suit, his white collar open at the throat without a tie.

“Sit, Sophia,” he said, gesturing to a low leather chair opposite his desk.