Seven-year-old Eli clung to her side, his small shoulders shaking as he whimpered.

Dante knelt beside the boy, placing a heavy, scarred hand on Eli’s shoulder.

“She is going to a safe place, Eli,” Dante said softly. “My doctors will fix her.”

“Is she going to die like Daddy?” Eli asked, his eyes wide and wet in the dim light of the basement.

“No,” Dante said. “I give you my word.”

Dante stood up and looked at Luca.

“Take Eli with her. Keep them under triple guard at the North Side clinic.”

Luca nodded, gently lifting the crying boy away from the bed.

Two of our trusted soldiers slipped into the room, their coats smelling of the Chicago snow outside.

They lifted Rachel onto a portable stretcher, handling her with unexpected gentleness.

“We go through the alley,” Luca said. “The snow is heavy enough to cover our tracks.”

“Go,” Dante said. “I will meet you after I trace this signal.”

The basement door clicked shut, leaving Dante alone with the dying computer terminal.

The red warning text on the screen began a sixty-second countdown.