I was only four and a half when I walked into a private room full of armed men and stood before Vincent Kane, Chicago’s most feared mafia boss

Mr. Sterling looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Dragging his feet like a man walking to the gallows, he was forced to carry a heavy canvas duffel bag stuffed with cash while Marcus and another large man named Leo flanked us on either side.

I skipped a little bit on the sidewalk, keeping my hand tucked safely inside the pocket of my red hoodie. The streetlights of Chicago flickered against the damp pavement, casting long, dancing shadows. Behind us, Mr. Sterling huffed and puffed, his expensive leather shoes clicking miserably against the concrete.

“Careful with that bag, Arthur,” Marcus warned over his shoulder without looking back. “If a single dollar bill is missing when we hand it to Miss Mara, Mr. Kane will personally turn your restaurant into a parking lot.”

“I’m being careful! I’m being very careful!” Mr. Sterling whimpered, his face slick with sweat despite the chilly autumn air.

We turned down Maple Street, a quiet neighborhood lined with old brick apartment buildings and tired maples shedding their final golden leaves. Our building wasn’t fancy. The front door buzzed loudly when you pushed it, and the hallway always smelled faintly of boiled cabbage and old laundry. But tonight, it felt like the safest place in the world.

We climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the third floor. Apartment 3B had a blue welcome mat that said Home Sweet Home—a joke, mostly, because we were rarely home and rarely sweet from exhaustion.

I reached up and banged on the peeling white paint of the door.

“Mommy! Mommy, open up!”

Locks clicked frantically from the inside. The door swung open, and there stood my mother, her hair pinned up messily in a clip, her face pale and drawn with panic. Her eyes swept over me, wild and frantic.

“Rory! Oh, thank God, oh sweet Jesus, where were you? I looked everywhere, I thought—” She scooped me up into her arms so tightly I could hear her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. “Don't ever, ever wander off like that again, do you hear me? I was losing my mind!”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I mumbled into her shoulder, patting her back. “I went to get your money.”

Mara pulled back, her eyes wide with confusion as she finally looked past me into the dimly lit hallway. Her breath hitched. Standing there in the cramped, dingy landing were two towering men in expensive black overcoats, holding a shivering, sweating Arthur Sterling, who was clutching a heavy canvas bag.

And stepping out from the shadows of the stairwell, moving with quiet, absolute authority, was Vincent Kane.

Mara froze, her grip on me tightening instinctively. She instinctively took a step back toward her apartment door, her face draining of what little color it had left.

“You…” Mara whispered, her voice trembling as she recognized the man from the evening news segments about Chicago’s underworld. “You’re… Vincent Kane.”

Vincent removed his dark wool coat, though he kept it draped over his arm, and offered her a respectful, albeit intimidating, nod.

“Good evening, Ms. Carter,” Vincent said, his voice smooth and deep. “I apologize for the late-night intrusion, but your daughter dropped something of great importance at my establishment tonight. I figured it was only right to return it personally.”

Mr. Sterling let out a pathetic squeak as Marcus shoved him forward, forcing him to drop the canvas bag right at Mara’s feet. The heavy zipper popped open slightly, spilling a thick stack of banded hundred-dollar bills onto our threadbare welcome mat.