Blood dripped from her temple onto a faded black uniform, but Brielle Dawson didn’t move.

What none of them knew — not the man with the gun, not the two groaning on the pavement, not even Brielle herself — was that this wasn’t a random street, and this wasn’t a random old woman. The child clutching that crushed yellow flower had a father whose name most of Chicago only dared to whisper. A man who ran an empire from behind glass walls forty floors above the city. A man who, in exactly ninety seconds, was about to find out that his mother and his daughter had come within one heartbeat of disappearing forever.