THE EMPTY SEAT AT THE HEAD OF THE TABLE

A blinding streak of neon red exploded across the dark kitchen.

The flare hit the puddle of gasoline at the doorway, and the fuel ignited with a heavy, roaring whoosh. A wall of orange flames shot instantly toward the ceiling, completely blocking the back exit. The heat was instantaneous and suffocating, rolling over us like a physical wave.

Harlan didn't stay to watch. The moment the fire caught, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the rainy night, sprinting toward the service vehicles.

“He’s getting away!” Vinnie yelled, coughing as thick, black smoke began to billow inward.

“The fire suppression system!” I shouted over the roar of the flames. “It’s manual! Because of the blackout!”

I scrambled out from behind the steel prep island. The kitchen was lit up like a nightmare, the shadows dancing violently against the tiled walls. I knew this room backward and forward; I had spent the last three years memorizing every inch of it.

I sprinted toward the far wall, where the large red emergency lever was mounted next to the walk-in freezer.

“Alice, wait!” Mr. Price called out, but I didn't stop.

I grabbed the heavy metal lever and yanked it down with all my weight.

Instantly, the ceiling nozzles hissed, and a massive deluge of chemical foam and water rained down over the doorway. The fire hissed and sputtered, fighting against the foam, but the sheer volume of the suppression system smothered the worst of it within seconds. The flames died down to angry, smoldering patches on the concrete.

“Go!” Matteo commanded, not waiting for the smoke to clear.

Vinnie and two other capos rushed through the steaming, toxic-smelling doorway, their guns drawn. Matteo followed right behind them, holding young Leo firmly by the shoulder.

I turned back to Mr. Price. He was coughing into his sleeve, shielding Lily with his coat.

“Stay here, Mr. Price,” I urged, taking his arm. “It’s safe now. Let the guards handle Harlan.”

“No,” the old man said, his voice surprisingly firm. His eyes were watering from the smoke, but his jaw was set. “Harlan used my granddaughter. He put a gun to that boy’s head. I’m not waiting in the kitchen like a coward.”

Before I could argue, he marched forward, leaning heavily on his cane, and stepped through the foam-covered doorway into the rainy night. I had no choice but to follow, holding Lily’s hand tightly in mine.

The cold rain was a shock after the intense heat of the kitchen. The service road was dark, illuminated only by the sweeping flashlight beams of the capos ahead of us.

We heard the roar of an engine coming to life.

“He’s in the catering van!” Vinnie shouted.

Fifty yards down the driveway, the headlights of a white panel van flicked on, cutting through the heavy rain. The tires spun on the wet gravel, kicking up mud as Harlan slammed it into gear.

Matteo didn't hesitate. He raised his gun and fired three rapid shots.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The sounds echoed sharply against the trees.

One of the van’s front tires blew out with a loud pop. The heavy vehicle swerved violently, the rear end fishtailing in the mud. Harlan lost control. The van skidded off the gravel road and slammed nose-first into the thick trunk of an ancient oak tree.

The horn blared in a continuous, deafening wail as the front end crumpled.

We ran toward the wreck, the mud sucking at our shoes. Vinnie reached the driver's side first. He yanked the bent door open and dragged Harlan out by his collar, throwing him face-first into the muddy grass.

Harlan groaned, clutching a bleeding gash on his forehead. He didn't have the strength to fight as Vinnie put a heavy boot squarely on his back.

Matteo walked up slowly. The rain slicked his dark hair to his forehead. He looked like an executioner.

He crouched down in the mud next to Harlan.

“The address, Owen,” Matteo said softly, the rain masking the sound of his voice to anyone but us. “Where is the safe house on the north side?”

Harlan spat a mouthful of blood and mud. He laughed, a wet, rattling sound.

“You’re too late, Matteo,” Harlan wheezed. “I told my guys... if I didn't check in by eight o'clock... they were supposed to clean up the mess. It's 8:15. Elena is already gone.”

Matteo’s face went blank. He grabbed Harlan by the throat, pulling him up from the mud. “Give me the address!”

“I don't know it!” Harlan screamed, panic finally breaking through his defiance. “I swear! Celia arranged it! I just paid the guys to watch the block!”

Matteo dropped him and spun around. “Where is Celia?”

“We left her in the dining room,” Vinnie said, looking back toward the dark, looming estate.

“She wouldn't give us the real address anyway,” I said suddenly, stepping forward into the headlights of the wrecked van.

Matteo looked at me.

“Think about it,” I said rapidly, my mind connecting the pieces. “Celia was blackmailing Elena. She was hiding her from you, and hiding the extent of it from Harlan. She wouldn't write down the real address on the grocery receipts. She’s too smart for that.”

“Then how do we find her?” Matteo demanded, his voice cracking with desperation.

I closed my eyes, picturing the seating chart, the menus, the files I had seen in Celia’s leather folder on the sideboard.

“The emergency contacts,” I said, opening my eyes. “When Celia plans a private event off-site, she always lists a dummy corporation for the catering permits to avoid drawing attention to the Leone name. On the receipts I handed you... what was the name of the company at the top?”

Matteo patted his pockets, pulling out the crinkled, slightly damp stack of receipts I had given him in the dining room. He held them up to the headlights.

“Arbor Management,” Matteo read.

I turned to Mr. Price.

“Mr. Price,” I said. “You’ve worked the docks for forty years. Does Arbor Management own any warehouses on the north side?”

The old foreman’s eyes widened. He leaned heavily on his cane, the rain pouring down his weathered face.

“They don't own a warehouse,” Mr. Price said, his voice trembling with sudden realization. “They own an abandoned maritime clinic. Off Pier 49. It’s been closed for a decade.”

Matteo’s eyes flashed. “A clinic. Celia said Elena was sick.”

“Let’s go,” Matteo commanded, turning to the capos. “Get the SUVs from the front. We’re going to Pier 49.”

As the men scrambled, I looked down at the mud. Something had fallen out of Harlan’s pocket when Vinnie dragged him from the van.

I picked it up.

It was a small, child’s drawing, folded into squares. It was a crayon drawing of a woman holding a little boy’s hand.

Written at the bottom, in messy, childish handwriting, were the words: To Mommy. Be brave.

I handed the drawing to Leo.