Chapter 1 - FIVE BULLETSFive bullets.
Five .45-caliber hollow points.
They were never meant for Sienna Cole.
They were meant for Caterina Russo.
Seventy years old.
Widow of the late Lorenzo Russo.
Mother of Dante Russo.
Matriarch of the most feared criminal family in Chicago.
But on October 12, 2023, the woman who should have died was still breathing.
And the woman who should never have mattered was bleeding on the pavement.
Sienna lay in Caterina's arms beneath the cold Chicago rain.
Blood mixed with water.
Her fingers twitched once.
Dante Russo dropped to his knees beside her.
For a man whose name could make grown men lower their voices, Dante looked strangely human.
His charcoal suit was soaked.
His hands were shaking.
“Stay with me.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
Sienna opened her eyes.
She could hear men shouting.
Cars screeching.
Guns firing somewhere in the distance.
But Dante's face remained close to hers.
“You're safe.”
Sienna almost laughed.
Safe.
That word belonged to another life.
A life before she entered the Russo penthouse.
Before she learned that wealthy Chicago families sometimes buried their enemies deeper than they buried their secrets.
Before she realized that the quiet old woman she fed soup to every afternoon had more enemies than most politicians.
Sienna swallowed.
“They weren't trying to kill her.”
Dante stared at her.
“What?”
Sienna forced herself to breathe.
“They wanted you to think they were.”
His jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“They know…”
Her voice weakened.
“They know what happens when you think you have something to lose.”
Her eyes closed.
Dante caught her hand.
“No.”
He squeezed it.
“Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
“Sienna.”
Still nothing.
Dante's voice sharpened.
“CALL THE DOCTOR!”
Two men sprinted toward them.
Rocco pulled open the back door of the nearest SUV.
“Boss, we have to move.”
Dante didn't respond.
He simply lifted Sienna into his arms.
She weighed almost nothing.
That disturbed him more than the bullets.
For six months, he'd seen her nearly every day.
She brought his mother tea.
She organized medication.
She pushed Caterina's wheelchair.
She spoke softly.
She disappeared when conversations became serious.
He had never once asked where she lived.
Never asked why she worked two jobs.
Never asked why an ordinary twenty-four-year-old woman knew how to recognize different calibers of ammunition by sound.
He had never noticed the tiny scar behind her left ear.
He noticed it now.
And for a reason he couldn't explain, it made the hair rise on the back of his neck.
“Take her to the private clinic,” he ordered.
Rocco hesitated.
“She's been shot five times.”
Dante turned.
“I know.”
“She may not survive.”
Dante's eyes hardened.
“Then pray she does.”
The SUV sped away.
Behind them, the black sedan disappeared into the rain.
Inside it, the gunman removed his gloves.
His phone rang.
He answered.
“It's done.”
A voice spoke from the other end.
“No.”
The gunman frowned.
“I hit the target.”
“You hit the wrong target.”
A pause.
“The old woman is alive.”
The gunman's expression changed.
“What?”
“Dante Russo is taking the girl to Saint Vincent.”
“Then we kill her there.”
“No.”
The voice became colder.
“We don't kill Sienna Cole.”
The gunman stared ahead.
“Why?”
Another pause.
Then the answer came.
“Because Sienna Cole doesn't exist.”
The line went dead.
Three hours later, Dante stood outside an operating room.
Blood covered his cuffs.
Caterina sat in a wheelchair at the end of the hallway.
She hadn't spoken since the shooting.
Rocco approached.
“Boss.”
Dante looked over.
“What?”
“We identified the sedan.”
“Who?”
“No plates. VIN was scrubbed. Weapon's gone.”
“Cameras?”
“Looped for eleven minutes.”
Dante's face hardened.
“Inside job.”
“Looks like it.”
Dante looked at his mother.
Caterina quietly stared at the floor.
Then she said something that made both men freeze.
“Sienna knew.”
Dante turned.
“What?”
“She knew they were coming.”
Rocco frowned.
“Ma'am?”
Caterina lifted her eyes.
“She looked at the car before the first shot.”
Dante stared at her.
“How do you know?”
“Because she told me to duck.”
His expression changed.
“When?”
“Three seconds before the gunfire.”
Dante said nothing.
Rocco slowly reached inside his jacket.
“I checked her room at the penthouse.”
He placed a plastic evidence bag on the table.
Inside was a small metal box.
Dante looked at it.
“Where did you find it?”
“Under her bed.”
Caterina's face went pale.
Dante opened the box.
Inside was a photograph.
Old.
Faded.
A little girl stood beside a woman.
The woman was smiling.
The girl was not.
Dante stared at the child.
Something about her face felt familiar.
On the back of the photograph were four words written in black ink.
PROPERTY OF THE BLACK ROSE.
Dante slowly looked at Caterina.
“What is Black Rose?”
For the first time in twenty years, Caterina Russo looked genuinely afraid.
“Where did you get that?”
“From Sienna's room.”
Caterina's hands began to tremble.
“Throw it away.”
Dante didn't move.
“Mother.”
“Burn it.”
“Who is Sienna?”
Caterina looked toward the operating room.
Then back at her son.
“You should have let her die.”
Dante's eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
Caterina whispered:
“Because if Sienna remembers who she is…”
The operating room doors suddenly opened.
A surgeon rushed toward them.
“Mr. Russo!”
Dante stood.
“What?”
The doctor's face was grim.
“She survived the surgery.”
Dante exhaled.
Then came the second sentence.
“But we found something inside one of the wounds.”
“What?”
The surgeon held up a small plastic fragment.
“There was a tracking device embedded near her shoulder.”
Dante's face went cold.
“Someone was tracking her.”
The surgeon nodded.
“Not just her.”
He looked toward the hallway window.
“Someone was tracking whoever she was supposed to become.”
Dante stared through the glass.
Sienna lay motionless beneath white sheets.
Monitors beeped beside her.
His eyes narrowed.
For six months, he had believed Sienna Cole was nobody.
A quiet employee.
A disposable nobody.
But someone had just fired five bullets at his mother to reveal one thing:
Sienna Cole was important.
May you like
Very important.
And somewhere in Chicago, someone was terrified that Dante Russo might discover why.
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