“Mister, put your dog in timeout!” Three-year-old Lucy Bennett marched into the private meeting of the most feared man in Chicago with one hand on her hip and the other gripping what remained of a stuffed rabbit.

The car door opened before the Mercedes had fully rolled to a stop.

Vincent stepped out into the sleet. He hadn't bothered to put his overcoat back on. He walked toward the east fence with slow, deliberate steps, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his charcoal trousers. He looked entirely indifferent to the freezing rain soaking his white shirt.

Behind him, Frank D'Angelo and two other men fell into formation, their silhouettes dark against the gray mist.

Nora clutched Lucy against her chest, her face pressed against the cold glass of the window above. "Don't look, Lucy. Keep your head down, baby."

"I want to see the cars," Lucy whimpered, but Nora pressed the girl's face into her shoulder, her fingernails digging through her own sleeves.

Below, Greg saw Vincent approaching.

Even from the third floor, Nora could see Greg's posture change. The manic rage melted into immediate, jittery panic. He backed away from the iron bars, raising his hands, his mouth moving in rapid, desperate apologies.

Vincent stopped three feet from the fence. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, rain matting his dark hair to his forehead, listening to whatever Greg was babbling.

Then, Vincent tilted his head slightly.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pull a weapon. He took his right hand out of his pocket and tapped two fingers against the iron bar.

Frank stepped forward, opened a side gate with an electronic key card, and before Greg could turn to run, two guards grabbed him by the sleeves of his gray hoodie. They slammed him facedown onto the hood of a patrol SUV, cuffing his hands behind his back with heavy plastic zip-ties.

Greg screamed—a high, pathetic sound that pierced through the double-paned glass of the solarium.

Vincent looked up.

His eyes cut directly through the gray storm, finding Nora’s window with terrifying accuracy. He didn't wave. He didn't signal. He just stared up at her for three unbroken seconds, making sure she had seen, making sure she knew the threat was neutralized.

Then he made a sharp cutting motion with his left hand.

The guards hauled Greg off the hood and dragged him toward the cellar entrance beneath the detached garage.

Ten minutes later, the bolt on the solarium door clicked open.

Vincent stood in the entryway. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his broad chest and the heavy curve of his shoulders. A faint smear of engine grease marked his left cuff, but his face was perfectly still.

Bishop trotted to him immediately, sniffing his pant leg once before sitting beside his boots.

"He's in the lower workshop," Vincent said evenly, looking at Nora.

Lucy wriggled out of Nora's arms and dropped to her feet. She marched up to Vincent, looking up at his wet clothes with utter disapproval. "You are all wet. You need a towel or you will get sick and go to timeout."

Vincent looked down at her. The rigid, lethal tension in his jaw softened by a fraction of an inch. "Is that another rule?"

"Yes," Lucy said, crossing her arms. "Mommy says so."

Vincent’s gaze lifted to Nora. His gray eyes were dark, swirling with an intensity that made Nora's throat close up.

"Your mother has a lot of rules," Vincent murmured.

"Vincent," Nora whispered, her voice shaking violently. "Did he... what did he say to you at the gate?"

Vincent’s eyes didn't leave hers. "He said he wanted his family back."

A hollow, bitter laugh escaped Nora's lips. "His family? He traded our wedding rings for crystal meth. He didn't care about his family until Marcus Valenti put a bounty on his teeth."