Vincent Moretti promised his pregnant wife he would come back for her after their private jet made a terrifying emergency landing.

By noon, the rain had intensified into a howling autumn storm.

In the penthouse of the Moretti Tower, Sophia Carter was hurriedly packing designer luggage. Diamonds, bearer bonds, passports, and velvet jewelry boxes lay strewn across the king-sized bed.

She had seen the look in Vincent’s eyes when she fled his office. She knew the walls were closing in. The mechanic who had tampered with the engine had recently called her from Mexico, demanding more hush money. If Vincent’s investigator, Marcus, got to the mechanic first, Sophia was dead.

She zipped up the first Louis Vuitton bag, her breathing ragged. "I just need to reach Miami. From Miami, I can get to the Caymans—"

"You won't make it past the lobby, Sophia."

Sophia shrieked, dropping the luggage handle.

Vincent stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

He was soaked from the rain. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his dark eyes hollow, dead, and utterly terrifying. Behind him stood two uniformed Chicago police detectives and a team of federal agents in windbreakers.

"Vincent!" Sophia gasped, clutching her chest, falling into her practiced damsel-in-distress routine. "Thank God you’re home! Someone tried to break in! I was packing because I was terrified—"

"Save your breath," Vincent said. The voice didn't sound human; it sounded like iron dragging across gravel. "Marcus intercepted your wire transfer to Guadalajara two hours ago. The mechanic, Hector Gomez? He’s currently in custody at the border. He gave federal prosecutors a forty-page sworn deposition."

Sophia’s face drained of every drop of color. She backed up against the bed, her knees trembling so violently she nearly collapsed.

"Vincent... no... he’s lying! He’s trying to frame me! I love you! I’ve always loved you—"

"You tried to murder my wife," Vincent said, stepping into the room. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't scream. The quietness of his fury was a thousand times more terrifying than rage. "You tried to incinerate my unborn son."

"She stole you from me!" Sophia suddenly shrieked, the sweet facade shattering into manic, hysterical hatred. Her eyes bulged, her face twisting into a hideous sneer. "You were mine first, Vincent! We were supposed to be the golden couple of Chicago! Then that Bennett whore walked into your life with her sweet smiles and her clean money, and you threw me away! She deserved to burn! She was supposed to die in that plane!"

Vincent closed his eyes for a single second.

When he opened them, the detectives moved in, clicking steel handcuffs around Sophia’s wrists.

"Sophia Carter," Detective Miller recited, pushing her toward the door. "You are under arrest for attempted premeditated murder, conspiracy to commit aircraft sabotage, and federal wire fraud."

Sophia struggled against the officers’ grip, screaming curses, spitting venom at Vincent as they dragged her down the grand staircase. "You’ll never have her back, Vincent! She hates you! She looks at you and she sees the fire! You’re just as guilty as I am! You left her to die!"

The elevator doors closed on her screams, cutting the penthouse into heavy, suffocating silence.

Vincent stood alone in the bedroom. He looked at the family portraits on the dresser—pictures of Anna that he had kept dusted every day for three years.

He picked up a framed photo of Anna laughing on the deck of a yacht in Amalfi, her hair blowing wild in the Mediterranean wind.

"I left you to die," Vincent whispered to the empty room. "She was right."

He set the frame down, picked up his phone, and dialed Marcus.

"Where is she now?" Vincent asked.

"She took Leo to the Lincoln Park Conservatory, sir," Marcus reported. "Her security detail is light. Just two men. Julian Sterling is still tied up in meetings."