Read on to discover what the next chapter has in store.

-5-

Dominic moved with the terrifying speed of a striking predator. In a single fluid motion, he drew a matte-black Sig Sauer pistol from a concealed holster beneath his armpit, flicked off the safety, and bolted out of the secure room before Clara could even draw her next breath.

"Stay here!" he threw over his shoulder as he sprinted down the corridor.

Clara didn't listen. Adrenaline surging through her veins, she followed right behind him, her sneakers slapping frantically against the cold marble floor as they raced back toward the east wing.

The nursery door was wide open. Inside, chaos reigned.

The expensive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rear gardens had been shattered from the outside, showering glass across the plush rug. Heavy velvet curtains billowed wildly in the cold autumn wind blowing in from the balcony.

Noah was gone.

Dominic stood in the center of the nursery, his pistol raised, sweeping the corners of the room with lethal precision. His chest heaved, and every muscle in his body was coiled tight like a compressed spring.

"Mrs. Hargrove!" Dominic roared, his voice shaking the crystal mobile hanging above the empty crib. "Security! Code red!"

Footsteps thundered up the staircase seconds later. Two armed guards burst into the room, guns drawn, their eyes scanning the dark balcony.

"Perimeter breach at sector four," one guard panted, pressing a radio to his collar. "Someone scaled the north wall, popped the balcony glass, and took the kid."

Clara stepped past the shattered glass, her heart hammering against her ribs. She walked straight to the edge of the balcony and looked down at the manicured lawn below. There were deep, muddy boot prints leading toward the black iron perimeter gates, where a sleek, unmarked black van was currently screeching away into the Lake Forest night, its taillights bleeding red against the fog.

Dominic walked slowly onto the balcony beside her. His knuckles were white around the grip of his pistol. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle ticked erratically in his cheek.

"They didn't want ransom," Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously hollow. "If they wanted money, they would have called months ago."

"They wanted what's in his head," Clara said quietly, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face. She looked down at the balcony railing, where a small scrap of dark fabric was snagged on a wrought-iron scroll.

She reached out, carefully unhooking the fabric. It was a fragment of a custom-tailored wool sleeve—the exact same material as the suits worn by the senior domestic staff inside the mansion.

She turned and handed the scrap to Dominic.

Dominic stared at the piece of fabric in his palm. The color was unmistakable. Charcoal gray. The uniform worn exclusively by Mrs. Hargrove and the inner circle of household managers who had access to every secure corridor in the estate.