Chapter 1
The magnificent marble foyer of the Chicago mansion was usually a place of echoing footsteps and bustling staff, but this evening, it felt like a polished tomb. Ethan Blackwood pushed open the heavy mahogany front doors, his tailored black trousers brushing against the pristine stone. At forty-two, the powerful mafia boss commanded every room he entered, but the sheer, suffocating silence of his own home immediately set his nerves on edge. He stood perfectly still, his thick, wavy dark-brown hair catching the dim light of the crystal chandelier overhead.
"Where is everybody?" Ethan demanded, his deep American accent cutting through the quiet space. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his expensive black fitted shirt, revealing the intricate black tattoos that crawled across his chest and up the sides of his neck.
His lead security guard, a towering man in a gray suit, stepped nervously from the hallway. "We assumed she was with you, Mr. Blackwood. The staff was given the weekend off. It was Mrs. Blackwood’s direct order."
"Claire gave the staff the weekend off?" Ethan asked, his sharp masculine features darkening with instant suspicion. He adjusted his black leather belt, the heavy silver wristwatch on his left arm catching the light. "I’ve been away on business for four days. Why the hell would she empty the house?"
"I don't know, sir," the guard replied, taking a cautious step back. "She hasn't been seen since Thursday morning."
Ethan’s jaw tightened. A dangerous, light stubble shadowed his face, making his hardening expression look even more lethal. He dismissed the guard with a sharp wave of his tattooed hand, his eyes scanning the immaculate, towering walls of the foyer. Something was entirely wrong.
"Get out," Ethan commanded coldly. "Wait by the gates. And do not let anyone in."
"Yes, Mr. Blackwood," the guard said, quickly exiting and pulling the heavy doors shut behind him.
Alone in the vast space, Ethan pulled his black smartphone from his pocket. The air felt unnaturally cold. His eyes darted toward the sweeping grand staircase, where a single, abandoned black suitcase sat near the bottom step. It wasn't one of his. It was Claire’s.
He dialed a number, pressing the phone hard against his ear. His heart beat with a strange, erratic rhythm. He was a man who instilled terror in thousands, yet the sight of that lonely suitcase sent a tremor of unease through his heavily muscled arms.
"Pick up the damn phone, Michael," Ethan muttered to himself, pacing the marble floor.
The line clicked. "Mr. Blackwood," came the controlled, professional American voice of his personal assistant, Michael Reed.
"Where is my wife?" Ethan demanded instantly, not bothering with a greeting. "I just walked into an empty house, Michael. The staff is gone, her car is gone, and there's a suitcase sitting by the stairs. Where is Claire?"
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"Sir, I..." Michael’s voice faltered slightly, an unusual hesitation for a man whose life depended on providing immediate answers. "I was just about to call you. I've been trying to piece together the timeline."
"I don't want a timeline!" Ethan roared, his voice echoing off the marble. "I want a location!"
