Chapter 4 - Lockdown and Chaos
"How did they find us this fast?" Evan demanded, his hand dropping instinctively to the holster beneath his suit jacket.
"My burner phone," Dante said calmly, though his eyes flashed with cold fury. "I made a call to our asset in the precinct an hour ago. Kearney’s tech division must have intercepted the ping."
The penthouse shook as a dull, concussive *BOOM* echoed from the lower levels.
"They're hitting the service elevators," Evan said, drawing his Sig Sauer pistol. "Boss, we need to get to the subterranean garage. We have five minutes before they breach the penthouse doors."
Hannah’s heart slammed against her ribs. She looked at the tablet, then down at Pickles, who was currently attempting to assassinate a dangling tassel on the living room rug.
"I'm not leaving my cat!" she yelled.
Dante grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip firm, grounding her amidst the rising chaos. "Listen to me, Hannah. We are not leaving you behind. Evan, grab the cat carrier and the thumb drive. Hannah, stay directly behind me. Do not look back, do not stop running, and whatever you do, do not trip."
"I am genetically predisposed to tripping!" Hannah protested, but Dante was already moving.
He pulled a hidden panel open in the wall beside the kitchen pantry, revealing a narrow, dark steel stairwell spiraling downward into darkness. It was an emergency escape route designed for high-ranking syndicate bosses—cold, narrow, and claustrophobic.
"Go," Dante ordered, shoving Evan and Pickles down first.
Hannah scrambled into the dark stairwell, her sneakers clattering against the metal steps. Dante followed right behind her, his large frame acting as a human shield. Above them, the heavy sound of breaching charges echoed through the penthouse—*CRACK-BOOM*—followed by the sound of splintering mahogany and shouting men.
They were inside.
"Faster, Hannah!" Dante urged, his hand gripping her elbow, literally lifting her over the last few steps as they burst out into the subterranean parking garage.
The garage was dim, lit only by flickering fluorescent bulbs. A sleek, armored black Mercedes sedan idling in the shadows flashed its headlights as they approached.
Evan yanked the rear door open, tossing Pickles' carrier into the back seat before sliding in beside it. Dante pushed Hannah into the passenger seat, slammed her door shut, and sprinted around to the driver's side.
As Dante threw the Mercedes into reverse, the garage doors at the far end blew inward in a shower of concrete dust and shrapnel. Two Kearney tactical SUVs tore into the garage, their high-beams blinding them, automatic weapons raised.
"Hold on," Dante snarled.
He slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Mercedes roared, its heavy-duty engine screaming as it fishtailed across the wet concrete, smashing directly through a security gate and rocketing out onto the rain-slicked streets of downtown Chicago.
Bullets pinged off the armored rear window like angry hornets. Hannah shrieked, ducking beneath the dashboard as glass shattered in the rearview mirror.
Dante drove like a formula one racer, weaving through evening traffic with terrifying precision, running red lights and cutting off semi-trucks until the grey towers of the financial district swallowed them into a labyrinth of concrete alleys.
Ten minutes later, the city fell quiet around them. The Mercedes slid smoothly into an underground parking structure beneath an unassuming brick warehouse in the industrial district.
Dante killed the engine. The silence in the car was absolute, save for Hannah’s ragged breathing and Pickles’ indignant meowing from the back seat.
Dante turned off the ignition, exhaling a slow, controlled breath. He looked over at Hannah, whose hair was a wild bird's nest, her hands trembling violently.
Slowly, a genuine, warm smile broke across Dante Vance’s face—a smile that made him look less like a terrifying mafia kingpin and more like a man who had just survived the best roller coaster of his life.
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"Well, Miss Brooks," Dante said softly, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from her cheek. "Still want to go back to your frozen lasagna?"
***
