“Move away from the door.”

She whispered, “He knows my name.”

“I know.”

“Roman.”

The handle moved again.

Then a second voice sounded in the hallway.

Calm.

“Gentlemen.”

Silence.

Something heavy struck the wall.

A grunt.

Another impact.

Sheree flinched.

Ten seconds later, someone knocked twice.

“Miss Carter,” a new voice said. “Mr. Vescari asked us to escort you somewhere safe.”

Sheree’s eyes closed.

“Vescari?”

The man outside continued.

“Roman Vescari.”

The name landed in her memory.

Newspapers.

Late-night television.

Whispered conversations in the ER when certain patients arrived accompanied by men who never gave last names.

Vescari.

Shipping.

Construction.

Nightclubs.

Union contracts.

Federal investigations that never produced convictions.

Bodies associated with men who supposedly had no relationship with him.

Sheree lowered the phone from her ear.

“Roman Vescari.”

He said nothing.

“Oh my God.”

“Sheree.”

“You’re that Roman Vescari?”

“Yes.”

She laughed once.

Not because it was funny.

Because sometimes terror needed somewhere to go.

“You left ten thousand dollars on my kitchen table like a demented tooth fairy.”

“You saved my life.”

“You’re a mafia boss.”

“I dislike the term.”

“I do not care what terminology organized crime prefers.”

Someone outside said, “Ma’am, we need to move.”

Sheree shut her eyes.

Last night she had thought the most dangerous thing inside her apartment was the wounded stranger on her couch.

She had been wrong.

The most dangerous thing was that someone wanted him dead badly enough to come looking for the woman who had kept him alive.

PART 2 — THE DEBT BETWEEN THEM

Roman’s safe house looked nothing like Sheree expected.

No marble.

No chandeliers.

No armed men standing beside oil paintings.

It was a narrow brick townhouse near Bridgeport with worn hardwood floors, simple furniture, and a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee.

Three men guarded the entrances.

That part felt accurate.

Sheree stood inside the living room holding the canvas bag containing ten thousand dollars.

Roman came down the staircase twenty minutes after she arrived.

Clean shirt.

Black trousers.

No coat.

His hair was still damp from a shower.

Except for the bandage beneath his shirt and the bruising along his jaw, he looked nothing like the dying man behind the dumpster.

He looked like the photographs.

Controlled.

Expensive.

Dangerous.

Sheree threw the bag at him.

Roman caught it one-handed.

“What is this?”

“Your guilt.”

His expression didn’t change.

“I don’t feel guilty about paying you.”

“That’s unfortunate. You should.”

“You lost sleep, supplies, and half a kitchen towel.”

“You think ten thousand dollars buys that?”

“No.”

“What does it buy?”

“Nothing.”

Roman placed the bag on a table.

“It was gratitude.”

“Gratitude says thank you.”

“I said thank you.”

“When?”

“I folded the blanket.”

Sheree stared at him.

Roman’s mouth almost moved.

She hated that she noticed.

“Why am I here?”

“Because the men outside your apartment work for someone named Victor Sanz.”

“Should that mean something?”

“It means he helped put the knife in my side.”

“You said someone saw me bring you inside.”

“They did.”

“Then I’m in danger because of you.”

Roman’s gaze held hers.

“Yes.”

The honesty stole some of her anger.

Only some.

“When can I go home?”

“When I know you can do it without somebody putting a gun to your head.”

Sheree folded her arms.

“I work tonight.”

“No.”

She blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not going to St. Jude’s.”

“You don’t control my schedule.”

“Today, I do.”

Sheree stepped closer.

Roman was accustomed to people backing away from him.

She could tell by the faint surprise in his eyes when she didn’t.

“You spent one night on my couch,” she said. “That does not give you ownership of the next twenty-four hours of my life.”

“This isn’t ownership.”

“It sounds exactly like ownership with better tailoring.”

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. If you walk into St. Jude’s tonight, Sanz will know where you are before you reach the nurses’ station.”

Sheree’s anger faltered.

Roman continued.

“He has people watching hospitals, bus stations, your building, probably the train platform you use.”

“Why hospitals?”

Roman looked away.

“Because he expected me to go to one.”

Sheree studied him.

“You really were scared of the hospital.”

“I wasn’t scared.”

“You were almost unconscious and still threatened me over it.”

“I was cautious.”

“You grabbed my throat.”

“You had a needle.”

“I was closing the hole in your body.”

“That was unclear when I woke up.”

Despite everything, Sheree almost smiled.

Roman saw it.

For one quiet second, both of them remembered the kitchen.

The radiator.

The vodka.

The ridiculous television.

The moment broke.

Sheree sat down.

“What does Sanz want?”

“My territory.”

“You own Chicago now?”

“No.”

“Comforting.”

“He also wants records that would give him leverage over people who matter.”

“Do I know anything about those records?”

“No.”

“Did you give me anything?”

“No.”

“Then why come after me?”

Roman’s eyes settled on her.

“Because men like Sanz assume everyone has a price, and if they can’t buy you, they hurt you until somebody else pays.”

Sheree swallowed.

For the first time, he sounded less like a criminal explaining violence and more like someone who had spent his life expecting it.

She looked toward his side.

“You’re bleeding again.”

Roman glanced down.

A dark spot had appeared beneath his shirt.

“You pulled a stitch.”

“It’s fine.”

“No.”

“Sheree.”

“Sit.”

He stared at her.

She pointed to the chair.

“Sit.”

One of the armed men by the door looked away, visibly hiding amusement.

Roman noticed.

“Outside, Nico.”

“Yes, boss.”

The man disappeared.

Sheree opened her medical bag.

“You brought supplies?”

“I was kidnapped by professionals. They let me pack.”

“You weren’t kidnapped.”

“One of your men took my phone.”

“For security.”

“Kidnapping with excellent customer service is still kidnapping.”

Roman sat.

Sheree lifted his shirt enough to inspect the wound.

One stitch had torn.

The surrounding skin was red.

Her fingers hovered near him.

Roman went still.

Not with pain.

Something else.

Sheree noticed old scars.

Thin lines across his abdomen.

A puckered mark near his right shoulder.

A pale, ugly scar beneath his ribs.

Somebody had tried to kill Roman Vescari more than once.

She cleaned the wound.

“You need antibiotics.”

“I have them.”

“Are you taking them?”

Silence.

Sheree looked up.

Roman’s face remained perfectly neutral.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“They make me nauseous.”

“So does sepsis.”

“I’m aware.”

“Apparently not enough.”

She worked.

His eyes stayed on her face.

After a while, Roman said, “Why did you become a nurse?”

“Why did you become a mafia boss?”

“That isn’t a profession listed at career day.”

“Neither is emergency nursing when you explain it properly.”

He waited.

Sheree tied off the replacement stitch.

“My brother died.”

Roman’s face changed so slightly she nearly missed it.

She continued.

“Marcus. Six years ago.”

Roman looked toward the window.

Sheree saw his jaw tighten.

“He was found outside about four blocks from St. Jude’s. Somebody called eventually. Too late.”

Roman said nothing.

“Afterward, I kept thinking about those minutes.”

She taped fresh gauze in place.