THE MAID, THE BRACELET, AND THE DAUGHTER WHO WAS NEVER BURIED

Dante slammed the phone down onto its cradle.

The dark, ruthless mafia boss had returned in a fraction of a second, replacing the grieving, vulnerable father we had seen moments before.

“Marco says our transport van carrying Elena is being ambushed near the Triborough Bridge,” Dante said, his voice sharp as broken glass. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a heavy set of keys, tossing them onto the kitchen island.

“Mr. Caruso, what are you going to do?” I asked, my heart leaping into my throat.

“I’m going to get my daughter,” Dante answered, walking swiftly toward the back exit.

“Wait!” I called out, stepping around the island.

Dante stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Emily, stay here. Lock the doors. It’s not safe.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said, my voice leaving no room for argument.

Dante frowned. “This isn't a maid’s job. This is a war zone.”

“Sophie is sleeping upstairs, and her twin sister is about to be dragged back into the nightmare your enemies created,” I said, stepping right up to him. “You think I’m going to sit here and bake cookies while you drive into an ambush alone?”

Dante stared at me, a flicker of profound shock crossing his features, quickly replaced by a fierce, undeniable respect.

“Get your coat,” he ordered tightly.

Two minutes later, we were tearing down the mansion’s long gravel driveway in Dante’s bulletproof black Cadillac Escalade. Dante drove with terrifying precision, shifting gears with one hand while holding a satellite phone to his ear with the other.

“Marco! Status!” Dante barked into the phone.

“They’ve boxed the van in!” Marco’s voice roared over static and the faint sound of screeching tires. “Two SUVs! They’re trying to pit-maneuver us! We’re taking fire, Boss!”

“Hold your position! I’m two minutes out!” Dante slammed the phone down and floored the accelerator, the powerful engine roaring as we hit the highway overpass.

I gripped the passenger-side handle so hard my knuckles turned white, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked night. The headlights cut through the heavy mist, illuminating the concrete barriers of the Triborough Bridge ahead.

Up ahead, chaos unfolded.

A large black transport van was pinned against the concrete guardrail, its rear doors dented. Two unmarked dark SUVs had sandwich-styled the van, and men in tactical gear were pouring out of the vehicles, firing assault rifles at the van’s reinforced windows.

“Hold on!” Dante yelled.

Instead of braking, Dante swerved the Escalade directly toward the rear SUV, slamming our heavy vehicle into its side panel with a sickening crunch of metal and shattering glass.

The SUV spun out of control, slamming hard into the concrete barrier.

“Out!” Dante commanded, throwing his door open.

He drew a sleek, black Glock from his shoulder holster as he stepped out onto the wet asphalt. Gunfire immediately began pinging off the side of our Escalade.

“Stay in the car, Emily!” Dante shouted over the din of gunfire.

I didn't listen. I popped my door open on the passenger side, sliding out low behind the heavy front tire.

Across the highway, one of the tactical gunmen broke away from the firefight. He wasn't shooting at Marco’s men. He was running toward the rear doors of the transport van, holding a heavy steel crowbar.

He was going to break inside. He was going to take Elena.

Without thinking, I spotted a heavy iron wrench lying on the pavement near a disabled car. I scrambled forward, grabbed it, and sprinted through the rain toward the back of the transport van.

The gunman raised his crowbar to smash the lock.