THE MAFIA BOSS'S SECRET LEDGER

The shrill ringing of the burner phone filled the suffocating silence of the SUV.

Leo cursed viciously from the driver’s seat, checking his rearview mirror as we merged violently onto the interstate. “Boss, you’re hit.”

“It’s a through-and-through,” Victor ground out, his jaw clenched in agony. He pressed a heavy hand against his shoulder, attempting to stem the arterial flow. He nodded at the ringing plastic phone. “Answer it, Clara.”

It was the first time in three months he had used my first name.

My fingers trembled as I picked up the phone and pressed the green button. I put it on speaker.

“Victor,” Matteo’s voice echoed through the car, breathless but triumphant. “You always were fast. But you left your ex-fiancée behind. And you still don't have the boy.”

“If you touch Camilla, you’ll regret it, Matteo,” Victor rasped, his breathing shallow.

Answer One, Open Two. Victor despised Camilla for betraying him, yet he was still protecting her. Why? Because the Senator’s daughter was a public figure. If she died at a mafia shootout, the FBI would tear Chicago apart. Matteo was unhinged, acting purely on desperation.

“I don't care about the girl,” Matteo sneered. “I care about the docks. Midnight, Victor. Or I send you Elian in pieces.”

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone. The blood pooling on Victor’s shirt was expanding rapidly. He was incredibly pale.

“Leo, we have to go to a hospital,” I said, panic finally bleeding into my voice.

“We can't,” Victor gasped, his head rolling back against the leather headrest. “Matteo owns the police... owns the ER chiefs. If I walk into a hospital, I won't walk out.”

“The safe house in Evanston,” Leo said, his eyes darting to the mirror again. “It has medical supplies. Miss Hastings, you’re going to have to patch him up.”

“Me?” My voice cracked. “I’m a secretary!”

“You’re the daughter of a man who spent his life building houses,” Victor whispered, opening one dark, intense eye to look at me. “You know how to use your hands. You can do this.”

Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the underground garage of a non-descript luxury high-rise. Leo carried Victor into the private elevator. I followed, carrying my tablet and the briefcase with the gun. My wine-soaked dress clung to me like ice.

The penthouse was massive, stark, and entirely devoid of personal touches. Leo laid Victor out on the massive kitchen island, sweeping expensive espresso machines and fruit bowls onto the floor to make room.

Leo tossed me a heavy trauma kit. “I have to secure the perimeter and track Matteo’s burner phone signal. Do not let him bleed out, Clara.”

Leo sprinted out the door. I was left alone with the most dangerous man I had ever met, who was currently bleeding to death on a marble counter.

“Cut the shirt,” Victor ordered, his eyes squeezed shut.

I grabbed the trauma shears from the kit. My hands were remarkably steady now. The panic had morphed into a cold, terrifying clarity. I sliced through the expensive Egyptian cotton, exposing his broad chest and the ugly, bleeding entry wound near his collarbone.

As I cleaned the wound with iodine, Victor hissed in pain, his hand blindly reaching out and gripping my hip to ground himself. His touch sent a shockwave through my system, entirely inappropriate for the moment, yet undeniably electric.

“You did well tonight,” Victor breathed, watching my face intently as I packed the wound with gauze. “You didn't freeze.”

“You set me up,” I said quietly, wrapping the pressure bandage tight. “You brought me there as bait. You knew Matteo would underestimate me.”

“I brought you because I trust you,” Victor corrected softly.

He reached up with his good arm, his fingers gently brushing the stained silk of my dress. He looked furious at the wine stain. “I bought this dress for you because I wanted you to feel like you belonged at that table. Not behind it.”

I swallowed hard, my heart doing a strange, violent flutter.

I turned away to wash the blood off my hands at the sink. As the water ran over my skin, I noticed something resting on the edge of the counter. It had fallen out of Victor’s jacket pocket when Leo carried him in.

It was a standard, plastic hospital ID bracelet.

But it wasn't Victor’s name printed on the white band.