The Socialite Shredded Her Dress at the Gala — Until the City’s Most Dangerous Man Wrapped His Jacket Around Her

Clara stumbled down the cold stone steps, her fingers skimming slime-slicked brick walls as darkness swallowed them whole. Behind her, Roman dropped through the hatch, slamming the heavy iron plate shut just as a hail of bullets ricocheted off its exterior surface. He jammed an iron crowbar through the interior locking rings, sealing them temporarily inside the shaft.

"That will hold them for three minutes, no more," Roman breathed heavily in the absolute dark, flicking on his tactical weapon light. The narrow beam illuminated a long, arched tunnel lined with ancient brickwork, stretching deep toward the bluffs overlooking Lake Michigan.

"Where does this lead?" Clara asked, her voice echoing hollowly off the damp walls.

"Old smuggling tunnel from the Prohibition era," Roman answered, moving swiftly ahead of her with his weapon raised. "The Sterlings originally built this estate during the 1920s to offload Canadian liquor directly from lake schooners. If this tunnel is intact, it leads to the boathouse at the base of the cliff."

They moved at a dead run through the chill subterranean damp, their boots splashing through inches of stagnant water. Every few yards, rusted conduits and vintage electrical wiring hung from the arched ceiling like decaying vines.

Suddenly, Roman halted abruptly, throwing an arm back to stop Clara.

Ten yards ahead of them, the tunnel opened into an underground chamber carved directly out of the lakebed limestone. In the center of the chamber, illuminated by modern LED floodlights hooked to portable generator batteries, sat rows of high-grade server towers and open steel shipping crates filled with passport blanks, bearer bonds, and encrypted satellite communication rigs.

Standing in the center of the chamber, staring at a laptop screen that cast a blue glow over his pale, bruised face, was Julian Sterling.

He was disheveled, his expensive bespoke suit torn and stained with sweat, a heavy revolver resting on the table beside his shaking hands.