Chapter 1 - The Trail in the Blizzard
The silence inside the multi-million-dollar penthouse on Michigan Avenue was louder than any gunshot Victor Rinaldi had ever heard. The mahogany cribs stood like two empty monuments to his failure. Leo’s blue knit blanket was missing. Mia’s heartbeat monitor had been unplugged from the wall outlet, the little green sensor light dark and lifeless on the parquet floor.
Victor fell to his knees beside the empty changing table. His broad hands, hands that had built a criminal empire from the docks of South Chicago to the boardrooms of the Loop, shook so violently that he dropped his car keys onto the floor.
She hadn't taken the jewelry.
He crawled toward the walk-in closet. The black velvet jewelry boxes sat undisturbed on the vanity. The ten-carat emerald necklace he bought her when the twins were released from the neonatal intensive care unit was still in its velvet slot. Beside it lay her platinum wedding band.
Nora hadn't run for wealth. She had stripped herself of every single thing that tied her to his name, choosing the mercy of a lethal Midwestern blizzard over another night breathing the air of a husband who had betrayed her.
Victor reached into his wool coat and pulled out his phone. His fingers were stiff as he dialed his chief of security.
"Marco," Victor barked, his voice raw, cracking like dry wood. "Wake up everyone. Every operator, every driver, every port watcher. Nora is gone. She took the twins."
On the other end of the line, Marco’s breath hitched in sheer disbelief. "Boss? Mrs. Rinaldi? The weather service just declared a level-four blizzard warning. Lake Shore Drive is shutting down. The highway patrol is pulling snowplows off the interstate because visibility is zero. If she’s on the road with infants who were on oxygen two weeks ago—"
"I know what the weather is!" Victor roared, smashing his fist against the closet mirror. Spiderweb cracks exploded across the glass, reflecting dozens of fractured, bloodshot versions of his own face. "She took the old gray Subaru from the secondary subterranean bay. Pull the building security feeds. Check the tollway cameras on I-90 and I-94. If anyone touches her, if any cop pulls her over and frightens her, I’ll take their badge and their throat. Find them, Marco! Find them before the cold does!"
He hung up, threw the phone onto the bed, and caught his reflection in the broken mirror. The lapel of his tailored coat gave off that suffocating, synthetic scent. Cherry blossom.
A nauseating bile rose in his throat.
Sylvia.
For six months, as Nora’s high-risk pregnancy had turned into emergency bed rest, Sylvia Vance—the daughter of a rival real estate oligarch—had slid into Victor’s periphery like a venomous serpent wrapped in silk. She had offered late-night drinks after brutal syndicate negotiations. She had whispered compliments about his power, feeding his monstrous ego while Nora was in the hospital hooked to magnesium drips, vomiting into plastic basins, and praying for their unborn babies to survive.
Last night, Sylvia had texted him an emergency message claiming her father’s men were raiding her downtown condo. When Victor arrived with his security team, there were no men. There was only Sylvia in a backless silk gown, a bottle of vintage scotch, and a room heavy with that sickening lotion. Victor had stayed for four hours, drinking, arguing, letting her hands rest on his shoulders, listening to her tell him that he deserved a life beyond crying babies and medical bills.
He hadn't slept with her last night, but the intent had lived in his cowardice. He had let another woman touch him while the mother of his fragile children was rocking two six-pound infants through the dark hours alone.
He had walked out of Sylvia's condo at four in the morning feeling filthy, yet convinced he could wash it off before sunrise.
He was an arrogant fool.
Victor stripped off the coat, tore the silk tie from his neck, and threw them both directly into the roaring gas fireplace. He watched the wool scorch and burn, the cherry blossom stench turning into acrid black smoke. But the fire couldn't clean the blood on his hands.
His phone buzzed on the bed.
May you like
"Boss," Marco's voice was grim. "We have the garage tape from 3:15 AM. She loaded two infant car seats and two duffels into the Subaru. She didn't take the tollways. She took Route 41 north, heading toward the Wisconsin state line. But Boss... the weather station in Kenosha just recorded whiteout conditions. There’s an eighty-car pileup near the border."
Victor grabbed his tactical winter jacket and his keys. "I’m coming down. Bring the heavy armored truck."
