Part 2: A bleeding woman in a ruined cream coat stumbled into her late-night shift, right up until five armed men arrived and bowed to the stranger.

"I know you're in there, sweetheart," Scar Face's voice came muffled through the thin wooden door. "Open up. We just want to talk about your late-night customer."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. How had he found me? I had never given my name. But Chicago was a city of cameras, license plates, and cheap bribes. A twenty-two-year-old graveyard shift waitress wasn't hard to track down if you had connections.

Toby looked at me from the sofa, his eyes widening with instant fear. "Riley? Who is that?"

"Go to the bathroom, Toby," I whispered urgently, waving my hands. "Lock the door. Do not come out until I tell you. Go! Now!"

Toby didn't argue. He scrambled off the couch and slipped into the bathroom, the latch clicking shut just as a heavy thud shook the apartment door.

"Come on, girl," the voice snarled outside. "Don't make us kick this piece-of-wood door down. You lied to me on 35th Street. You hid the Romano bitch. That makes you an accomplice. Tell me where Matteo took her, and maybe I leave your little brother alone."

My breath caught in my throat. *They know about Toby.*

A cold, lethal fury overtook the terror. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the black card. The metal felt ice-cold in my sweating palm. I pulled out my cheap prepaid phone, flipped the card over, and dialed the eleven-digit number embossed beneath the golden lion.

It rang once.

"Speak," a voice said. It wasn't an operator. It was Matteo.

"They're outside my apartment," I whispered, keeping my eyes glued to the flexing doorframe as the man outside kicked it again. "The man with the scar. He knows about my brother."

There was a two-second silence. On the other end, I heard the sharp rack of a slide chambering a round.

"Where are you?" Matteo demanded.

"1422 South Loomis. Apartment 3B. Hurry, the door won't hold!"

"Riley," Matteo’s voice was utterly calm, almost terrifyingly so. "Get away from the doorway. Take your brother and get into the bathtub. Stay low. Two minutes."

The line went dead.

*Two minutes?* It was impossible. Loomis was miles from the gold coast or wherever the Romanos operated.

*BAM!*

The wooden frame splintered with a sickening crack. The deadbolt gave way. The door swung violently inward, hitting the wall.

Scar Face stepped across the threshold, flanked by two thickset thugs in windbreakers. In Scar Face's right hand was a snub-nosed revolver. His cold eyes swept the tiny living room, locking onto me standing by the kitchen counter.

"Look at that," he sneered, stepping inside and kicking the shattered door partially shut behind him. "All brave at the café, but trembling in your dirty little rat hole. Where is she, kid?"

"I don't know who you're talking about," I said, holding a heavy iron frying pan in front of me with both hands. It looked pathetic against a gun, but I refused to cower. "Get out of my house before I call the cops."

"The cops?" Scar Face laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Honey, the cops in this district work for Marcus Vane. Nobody is coming to save you."

He took two steps forward, raising the gun toward my chest. "Last chance. Which safe house did they use? Where is Carmela Romano?"

"I don't know!"

Scar Face shook his head with mock sadness. "Shame. Grab her, boys. Check the back rooms for the kid. Maybe the brother's screams will jog her memory."

The two men stepped forward.