The rain was pouring now, drumming heavily against the high glass windows.

The streetlights outside cast long, distorted shadows across the empty tables.

It felt different now.

The restaurant was no longer my prison or my hiding place.

It was the starting point.

Lucian walked to the heavy front doors and paused, his hand on the brass handle.

“There is something else you need to know,” he said, turning to look at me.

“Victor was not acting alone.”

“The money for the hit on Elena did not come from our accounts.”

“It came from a bank in Chicago.”

“Someone wanted the Draven family destroyed from the outside.”

“Who?” I asked.

Before he could answer, a loud, sharp crash shattered the glass of the front window.

A heavy brick wrapped in dark cloth landed on the polished hardwood floor, sending shards of glass flying.

Bishop instantly lunged forward, his hair standing on end as he barked fiercely at the street.

Lucian pulled his gun in one smooth, practiced motion.

He stepped in front of me, shielding me from the open window.

Outside in the pouring rain, headlights flashed to life.