At 5:03 in the morning, Victor Rinaldi came home smelling like another woman and found both cribs empty.

The wind outside the penthouse windows howled like a wounded animal, throwing sheets of white ice against the glass. Inside, Victor Rinaldi stood in the center of the quiet nursery, staring at the indentation in Leo’s crib until his eyes burned.

He didn't call the police. The Chicago Police Department was useful for civilian problems, but Victor’s life had never been civilian. A man who spent fifteen years locating missing cartel assets, untangling offshore shell companies, and hunting people who vanished on purpose did not call 911 when his world fell apart. He called Dominic.

Ten minutes later, Dominic Vance stepped out of the private elevator. Dominic was sixty, built like a fire hydrant, and had served as the Rinaldi family’s chief of security since Victor was in tactical boots in military intelligence. He took off his snow-dusted coat, took in the open front door, and looked at Victor.

"Where are they?" Dominic asked softly.

"Gone," Victor said. His voice was flat, devoid of the gravelly confidence that usually commanded every room he entered. "She left. Took the twins, their meds, the formula, and her passport."

Dominic didn't express surprise. That was why Victor kept him around. Dominic simply walked to the kitchen, glanced at the empty granite counter, and then checked the garage security panel on the wall.

"She bypassed the basement sensors," Dominic noted, tapping the touchscreen. "The main elevator logs show no movement between midnight and four in the morning. She used the freight lift with a cloned service key. She’s been planning this for months, Victor."

Victor felt a cold blade twist in his gut. Months. While he was coming home late, making excuses about late-night meetings and offshore acquisitions while stopping by Sylvia’s high-rise in Gold Coast, Nora had been quietly building an escape hatch.

"Check the private garage," Victor commanded, leaning against the kitchen island. "Which car is missing?"

"None of yours," Dominic replied, looking at his handheld tablet. "The Maybach, the Range Rover, and the Porsche are all parked in their stalls. But city traffic cameras caught a gray 2014 Subaru Legacy leaving the alley loading bay at three-forty-five AM. Cash purchase, registered under a dead woman’s name six weeks ago in Wisconsin."

Victor closed his eyes. The breath left his lungs in a ragged exhale. Nora wasn't just a timid former kindergarten teacher who panicked under pressure. She was the daughter of an old-school union boss from South Chicago. She knew how men like Victor operated. She knew he monitored her credit cards, her phone, her car’s GPS, and even her social media accounts. She hadn't slipped up once.

"Get the team," Victor said, opening his eyes. The coldness was returning, replacing the shock. "I want every camera within a ten-block radius pulled. I want traffic feeds from I-90, I-94, and the Skyway. The storm is closing down O'Hare and Midway, so she isn't flying out today. She’s on the road with two premature infants who need sterile bottles and oxygen monitoring every six hours."

"Victor," Dominic warned, stepping into his line of sight. "Look at yourself. You smell like another woman’s perfume, your hands are shaking, and you’re talking about hunting your wife like she’s an unpaid debtor. If you find her with a squad of heavy hitters in a blizzard, what do you think happens?"

"I bring my children home!" Victor roared, his fist slamming onto the granite counter with enough force to echo down the hallway.