Dante closed the heavy iron door and locked it from the inside with a thick sliding bolt.

“That will buy us some time,” he said.

We walked quickly through the tunnel, our footsteps splashing in shallow puddles.

The darkness here was absolute, save for the flashlight on Dante’s phone, which he kept shielded with his hand.

After what felt like miles, we reached a set of stone steps leading upward.

Dante pushed open a wooden trapdoor at the top.

Cool night air rushed over my face.

We emerged in a narrow alleyway behind a row of closed shops.

The Chicago skyline loomed above us, distant and indifferent.

A black SUV was parked at the end of the alley, its engine idling silently.

Dante kept his gun raised as we approached it.

The driver’s window rolled down, revealing the face of one of Dante’s trusted lieutenants, Marcus.

“Boss,” Marcus said, his eyes wide. “We lost communication. The penthouse is crawling with Moretti’s men.”

“I know,” Dante said, opening the rear door. “Get us out of here. Now.”

We climbed into the back seat, and Marcus hit the gas.