The silver tea tray trembled in my hands, the porcelain cups clinking together with a sharp, high-pitched ring that felt entirely too loud in the quiet tension of the grand foyer.

The rain had turned into a torrential downpour by late afternoon, lashing the glass windows of the estate study with furious sheets of water.

Federal marshals, local police detectives, and state troopers crowded the main foyer, turning my newly upgraded office into an operational command center. Maps of the Chicago metropolitan area were pinned to the mahogany walls, marked with red pushpins indicating roadblocks, highway checkpoints, and suspected safe houses belonging to Vivian Cross’s corporate network.

Roman stood by the tall arched window, staring out into the storm, his jaw set in a hard, unyielding line.

"She didn't run to a safe house," Roman said without turning around. "Vivian isn't stupid. She knows federal marshals will sweep every known address within twelve hours."

I stepped up beside him, holding a fresh cup of black coffee. "Then where would she go?"

"Back here," Roman said quietly.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine. "Back to the estate? The place is crawling with federal agents and armed security."

"She’s desperate, Clara," Roman replied, turning to look at me, his dark eyes fierce and uncompromising. "She knows about the vault. She knows about Julian Valente's diary. If those documents get into the hands of the federal prosecutor, the entire foundation of Valente Development isn't just restructured—it's dissolved, and every asset my family owns is seized by the government as proceeds of a multi-decade criminal enterprise."

The office door pushed open, and Marcus Sterling hurried in, holding a freshly printed satellite tracking report.

"Roman, we tracked the signal from the tactical GPS tracker planted in Vivian’s prison jumpsuit before the transport was intercepted," Marcus said, breathless. "The vehicle heading north toward Wisconsin was a decoy. The second vehicle turned around ten minutes after the ambush and came back south."

"Where is it?" Roman demanded.

"Old Hickory Boulevard," Marcus said, pointing at the map. "Right past the eastern service gate. They're heading straight for the estate's old drainage tunnel."

Roman didn't hesitate. He reached behind his desk, unlocked the heavy steel biometric cabinet, and pulled out a tactical Sig Sauer P320, checking the magazine with a sharp, practiced click.