THE BLIND HEIR OF CHICAGO: BLOODLINES, BULLETS, AND THE ART OF WAR

The mansion was no longer a home; it was a crime scene and a target.

Within ten minutes of Mateo's execution, secondary sirens began to wail in the distance—not the police, but the reinforcements Moretti had stationed on the outer perimeter of Lake Forest.

"We need to move now," Evelyn urged, grabbing two tactical go-bags from the secret vault beneath the floorboards. "Moretti knows the first strike team failed. He will send heavy armor and firebomb the estate to leave no witnesses."

We loaded into an unmarked, armored SUV stored in the underground carriage house beneath the stables. As the heavy steel doors opened, I floored the accelerator, tearing through the back forest trail and leaving the burning remnants of my ancestral mansion behind us in the rear-view mirror.

Grace sat in the middle row, her fingers gently running over the leather-bound case Helena had left behind. "Where are we going, Dad?"

"To an old underground bunker beneath the steel mills in Gary, Indiana," I replied, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "It's off the grid. No digital signatures, no satellite tracking."

"That bunker was Helena's primary contingency," Evelyn added from the passenger seat, scanning the road ahead with a thermal scope. "It has enough ammunition, medical supplies, and surveillance equipment to wage a private war against an entire army."

"Good," I muttered. "Because when the sun comes up, we are taking the fight directly to Moretti."

Grace adjusted the bone-conduction earpieces, listening intently to the raw radio chatter Evelyn had tapped into. "Dad... there's a problem."

"What is it, Grace?"

"Moretti's main force isn't just heading to the mansion," Grace said, her voice dropping into a tense whisper. "They've locked down the highways. And there's a black drone circling above the tree line right above us. It's following the heat signature of our exhaust."