A hundred and eighty-seven people watched Chicago’s most feared mafia boss roll backward into twelve feet of freezing water—and not one of them screamed. / Chapter 7 / 10

Chapter 7 - The Rooftop EscapeDragging an exhausted, battered Leo up two flights of narrow steel stairs tested every ounce of adrenaline left in my system. My muscles burned, and my breath came in ragged, painful gasps.

We reached the top-floor maintenance landing just as the heavy metal door below us began to rattle under the force of someone trying to force it open from the basement stairs.

"The hatch!" I pointed upward toward a circular glass-paneled roof exit leading out onto the flat copper roof of the carriage house.

I climbed the wall-mounted ladder first, shoved my shoulder against the rusted latch, and pushed upward. The hatch burst open, letting in a rush of cool, wet night air as rain began to mist down from the dark Chicago sky.

I pulled myself out onto the slick copper sheeting, then leaned down to grab Leo’s hands, hauling him up beside me just as heavy boots thundered onto the landing below.

"They're on the roof!" a voice shouted from inside the stairwell.

"Run!" I grabbed Leo’s arm, sprinting across the slippery, sloped roof toward the far edge where an overhanging oak tree stretched its thick branches toward the third-story window of the main mansion.

It was a terrifying leap—at least twelve feet of empty air over a concrete drop—with zero margin for error.

"Maya, we'll never make it!" Leo shouted over the rising wind and rain.

"We make it, or we stay here and get buried in the lake!" I yelled back. "On three! One... two... three!"

We launched ourselves off the edge of the roof into the dark, rainy night.

For a terrifying second, we were completely weightless, suspended between the starry sky and the wet ground below. Then my hands slammed into the rough, wet bark of the oak tree’s thickest branch. My fingers locked around the wood with a death grip, my shoulder screaming from the sudden, violent impact.

Leo crashed heavily into the foliage beside me, his legs swinging wildly before he managed to hook his boots around a lower limb.

We scrambled hand-over-hand along the branch until we crashed directly through an open third-story casement window into an unoccupied guest room of the Vescari mansion.

We hit the hardwood floor in a tangled heap of wet clothes, heavy breathing, and overwhelming relief.

Click.

The brass door of the guest room slowly swung open.

We both froze, Leo awkwardly raising the Glock we had scavenged from the enforcer.

Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim hallway sconces, was Julian Vescari. He sat in his motorized wheelchair, holding a loaded Sig Sauer pistol in one hand with terrifying, effortless precision.