Fleur stood frozen as her aunt Ottilia stripped away her paper crown, draped a lace mourning veil over her face, and cruelly sneered that she should practice crying because her daddy’s funeral was next.

Edric did not pick up the silver rattle. He stared at it under the lamplight, his mind calculating every angle, every betrayal, every vulnerability in his perimeter.

"Julian," Edric whispered, the name tasting like ash and iron.

"He was watching the whole thing, Boss," Silas said, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. "He was sitting on that roof waiting for the car to blow. When you didn't walk out the front doors, he packed up and pulled out."

"Did our highway units spot the vehicle?" Edric asked.

"A dark gray Dodge Charger with stolen municipal plates," Silas replied. "He headed west toward Interstate Eighty. We lost the transponder signal near the Delaware Water Gap. He’s off the grid."

Agent Cole crossed his arms, leaning against the bookcase. "I can put out an interstate federal warrant, Edric. But if Julian is operating under a synthetic identity funded by Chicago, it could take weeks to track his financial footprint."

"I don't have weeks, Marcus," Edric said, his voice flat as a tombstone. "My daughter doesn't live under a federal protective detail. She lives under mine."

"What are you going to do?" Cole asked.

"I’m going to Chicago," Edric said.

Silas looked up, his jaw clenching. "Boss, that’s Moretti territory. If you cross the state line with an armed crew, it triggers a nationwide syndicate war. The Commission will step in."

"Let them step in," Edric replied, turning his cold gaze upon his bodyguard. "The Commission exists because my father let them exist. If Dominic Moretti thinks he can hide my brother-in-law while they build bombs for my child, I will turn their meatpacking plants into parking lots."

On the sofa, Fleur stirred. She let out a small, sleepy sigh, turning onto her side, her tiny fingers clutching the edge of the cashmere throw.

Edric walked over to her, his heavy steps making no sound on the deep Persian rug. He knelt beside the couch, gently brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from her forehead. Her rosy cheeks were smooth, peaceful, untouched by the knowledge of the war raging around her cradle.

"Silas," Edric said quietly, never taking his eyes off the child.

"Yes, Mr. Whitburn?"

"Have the armored Suburban brought to the private loading dock. Pack four tactical cases from the armory. Bring Kane, Miller, and the two drivers from the south docks."

"What about the country club guests?" Silas asked.

"Let Cole handle them," Edric said. "They drank my liquor. They can give their statements to the FBI."