His Wife Had Disappeared Four Years Earlier, and He Believed Everything She Owned Was Destroyed—Until His Fiancée Tried Desperately to Hide One Locked Suitcase.

The roar of the twin turbine engines cut through the heavy rain as our helicopter banked sharply over the black, churning waters of Lake Michigan.

The storm had followed us north. Lightning split the violet clouds above, illuminating the jagged coastline of Wisconsin below.

Inside the cabin, the red jump lights cast long, grim shadows over Vincent’s strike team. Six heavily armed operators sat in silence, checking their night-vision optics and charging their suppressed carbines.

I sat belted securely between Vincent and Dr. Ramos, a heavy fleece-lined jacket covering my pregnant belly. Over the jacket, Vincent had insisted on strapping a lightweight ballistic plate across my chest.

Vincent had not let go of my left hand since we lifted off from Chicago. His gloved thumb stroked the back of my knuckles in a steady, protective rhythm.

"How are the contractions?" he asked over the radio headset, his voice clear and remarkably steady amid the roar of the rotors.

"Quiet," I answered, leaning my head slightly toward him. "She knows we're on a mission. She's being brave."

Vincent looked down at my stomach, a faint, bittersweet smile touching his lips. "Daniel would be insufferably proud of you right now."

"Daniel was terrified of you, you know," I said softly into the microphone. "He used to tell me that Vincent Moretti could smell a lie from across three state lines. He spent months planning how he was going to tell you about Grace without Richard finding out."

"Richard bought off my senior intelligence circle," Vincent said, his jaw tightening. "Daniel couldn't trust anyone wearing a Moretti crest. If he had approached me through normal channels, Richard’s snipers would have put a bullet in Elena and Grace before the sun set. Daniel did the only thing a true guardian could do: he went dark."

"Boss! Two minutes to target!" the pilot’s voice crackled through our headsets. *"Kenosha radar reports a ground convoy of four black Suburbans heading east on Highway 158 toward the lake bluff! Richard’s strike team is five minutes ahead of us!"*

"Put us down on the cliff edge, south of the lighthouse," Vincent ordered instantly. "Marco, engage the lead vehicle with sniper fire to stall their convoy. Do not allow them to breach the convent courtyard!"

"Understood!"

The helicopter plunged through the low ceiling of mist. Below us, the towering white spire of an antique 19th-century lighthouse pierced the darkness, its revolving yellow beam cutting across the stormy lake. Adjacent to the lighthouse stood the stone walls and slate roofs of St. Michael's Convent.

Even from the air, I could see headlights racing down the narrow gravel access road through the pine forest. Richard Sterling’s mercenaries were closing in.

*CRACK.*

A streak of tracer fire from our door gunner stitched across the gravel road ahead of the lead SUV below. The vehicle swerved violently, its tires shredding as it plowed into an ancient oak tree, blocking the narrow road and forcing the following three vehicles to screech to a halt.

"Down! Down! Down!" the crew chief shouted as the skids touched the wet grass of the cliffside lawn.

Vincent unbuckled my harness with lightning speed, scooping me into his arms before I could even touch the muddy ground. Dr. Ramos flanked us with his medical trauma bag drawn.

"Marco, hold the tree line!" Vincent roared over the howling wind and rain. "Nobody enters this courtyard alive!"

Vincent carried me across the drenched lawn toward the heavy oak doors of the convent sanctuary. Gunfire erupted behind us in the pine woods—the sharp, distinct crackle of suppressed rifles trading shots in the dark.

Vincent kicked the small side door of the chapel open.

We tumbled inside, the thick stone walls instantly deadening the sounds of the firefight. The interior was lit only by flickering votive candles. The scent of beeswax, frankincense, and wet slate filled the air.

At the foot of the altar, huddled in protective terror, stood an elderly nun in a white habit, clutching a wooden crucifix.

And behind her skirts peeked a little girl.

She wore a yellow knitted cardigan, her dark brown curls tumbling over her shoulders, clutching a worn-out plush bear with one missing ear.

And when she lifted her face toward the candlelight, my breath caught in my throat.

She had Elena's delicate chin, Elena's rosebud lips.