His wife had left the cash, taken their premature twins, and disappeared into one of the worst snowstorms Chicago had seen in years.

By seven in the morning, the sun attempted to rise behind a solid wall of iron-grey clouds, throwing a ghostly, dead light across Chicago.

Victor sat in the back of his bulletproof black Suburban as Marco drove through the slush-choked streets of the West Loop. The interior of the SUV was silent except for the crackle of two encrypted radios and the quiet tapping of a lap laptop operated by Marco’s younger brother, Leo, sitting in the passenger seat.

"Nothing on her bank cards," Leo reported, his eyes reflected in the glowing screen. "No ATM withdrawals, no credit swipes since yesterday at noon when she bought groceries at the Mariano’s on Michigan Avenue."

"She wouldn't use her cards," Victor said, staring out at the frozen sidewalk. "She took cash. But she didn't take the emergency stash in my vault. Where did she get cash?"

"Her jewelry," Marco muttered from the driver's seat. "Three weeks ago, she took her grandmother’s diamond brooch and two vintage watches to a high-end estate dealer in Gold Coast. Said she wanted them appraised for insurance. The dealer wired eighteen thousand dollars to an unlinked checking account under the name Elena Vance."

Elena Vance. Nora’s mother, who had died six years ago.

Victor leaned his head back against the leather headrest. The humiliation was a physical ache in his ribs. Nora had been dismantling her life right beneath his nose while he was busy congratulating himself on being the undisputed master of his world. He had spent his career anticipating the moves of mob bosses, corrupt politicians, and federal prosecutors, yet he had been completely outmaneuvered by a woman who spent her days nursing twins in a fleece robe.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The caller ID showed a number he knew too well.

He answered it on the third ring. "What?"

"Victor?" Sylvia’s voice came through the speaker, breathless and artificially sweet. "Where did you go? I woke up and the bed was cold. You left your silver cufflink on my nightstand..."

"Don't call this number again, Sylvia," Victor said, his tone colder than the ice on his windshield.

A brief pause on the line. "Excuse me? Victor, baby, if this is about last night—"

"I am going to say this once," Victor interrupted, his voice dropping into a guttural growl that made Marco glance nervously in the rearview mirror. "By noon today, you will pack your bags and leave the apartment on Chestnut Street. The lease is canceled. The car allowance is revoked. If you ever come within three blocks of my office, my house, or my wife, I will turn your entire life into ash. Do you understand me?"

"Victor, you can't—"

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the leather seat beside him.

"Boss," Leo spoke up from the front, his voice tense. "We hit something. A DMV hit out of Kendall County."

Victor sat bolt upright. "Talk."

"Six weeks ago, an Elena Vance registered a 2012 dark grey Subaru Outback with a private seller in Yorkville. Cash purchase. Four thousand dollars. The title was signed over, but the registration was flagged because the emissions test was pending."

"Where is the car now?"

"It’s not on any traffic camera in the city," Leo said, typing furiously. "Which means she kept it parked off-site. Somewhere close to the penthouse, but out of sight."

"The parking garage on Grand Avenue," Victor said instantly, his eyes narrowing. "Two blocks from the loading dock. It’s an unmonitored pay-by-day structure."

"Marco, hit the gas," Victor ordered.

Five minutes later, the heavy Suburban pulled into the shadowy, concrete cavern of the Grand Avenue garage. The air inside smelled of damp salt, exhaust fumes, and freezing concrete.

Victor stepped out before the car had fully stopped. He walked directly to Space 42, near the rear exit ramp.

The stall was empty.

On the oil-stained concrete where the rear bumper would have been sat a small pile of discarded trash: a crumpled paper cup from a local diner, an empty box of sterile saline wipes, and a printed map of upper Wisconsin, its edges torn off.

Victor knelt in the bitter cold of the parking floor. He reached down and picked up a small scrap of paper that had been trapped beneath a piece of ice.

It was a hand-written note on hotel stationary. In Nora’s neat, elegant handwriting, there were three lines:

Leo’s nebulizer: 2.5mg every four hours. Mia’s body temp: Keep above 97.8. Do not go back.