“How many people walked past? How many heard something? How many told themselves it wasn’t their problem?”

Her voice softened.

“My mother never got over that part.”

Roman’s hands were motionless.

“That’s why you brought me inside.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t know me.”

“Marcus wouldn’t have cared.”

Roman closed his eyes.

Sheree stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No.”

She stepped around the chair.

“Every time I mention my brother, you look like someone punched you.”

Roman opened his eyes.

“You’re imagining it.”

“You knew my surname.”

“I know many names.”

“You knew my landlord hadn’t fixed the lock.”

“My people checked after I left.”

“That explains the lock. It doesn’t explain last night.”

Roman stood.

Conversation over.

Sheree grabbed his wrist.

“Did you know Marcus?”

He looked down at her hand.

Then at her.

For a long moment, something unbearably tired passed through his face.

“No.”

The answer came too late.

Sheree released him.

“You’re lying.”

Roman walked away.

By evening, snow covered the windowsills.

Sheree did not go to work.

She called in sick for the first time in three years.

At seven, Roman’s men brought food.

At eight, someone delivered clean clothes for Sheree.

At nine, Roman took a phone call in the kitchen.

His voice never rose.

That frightened Sheree more than shouting would have.

“You gave Sanz the location.”

Silence.

“I asked a question.”

Another pause.

Then Roman said, “Find him.”

He ended the call.

Sheree sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of soup growing cold between her hands.

“One of your people betrayed you.”

“Yes.”

“Someone close?”

“Yes.”

“Does that bother you?”

Roman poured coffee.

“Should it?”

“It would bother me.”

“People disappoint you less when you expect them to.”

“That sounds miserable.”

“It’s efficient.”

Sheree watched him.

“Marcus used to say something like that.”

The coffee stopped halfway to Roman’s mouth.

“He said, ‘Never give people enough power to surprise you.’”

Roman set the cup down.

Sheree’s pulse quickened.

“How do you know my brother?”

“I told you—”

“Stop.”

The word came quietly.

Roman did.

“You knew him.”

His face became blank.

That confirmed everything.

Sheree stood.

“Tell me.”

“Not tonight.”

“You don’t get to choose when I hear the truth about my dead brother.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“People say that when the simple truth makes them look guilty.”

Roman’s eyes flashed.

“Be careful.”

Sheree laughed bitterly.

“There he is.”

“Sheree.”

“The man everybody is afraid of.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive.”

“And I’m trying to understand why the stranger bleeding behind my dumpster already knew my last name.”

Silence stretched.

Then a door opened.

Nico entered fast.

“Boss.”

Roman turned.

“They found Bell.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Warehouse on Thirty-First.”

Roman took his coat.

Sheree stepped forward.

“Who’s Bell?”

“No one you need to know.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“With stitches that keep ripping?”

Roman looked at Nico.

“Keep her here.”

Sheree’s expression hardened.

“Do not say it like I’m a package.”

Roman came close.

“Tonight ends this.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You’re planning to kill somebody.”

His silence answered.

Sheree lowered her voice.

“Roman.”

He stopped at the door.

“Do you ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Being the person everybody is afraid will walk through the door.”

Roman looked at her.

For once, he didn’t have an answer.

He left.

At 11:37, the safe house lost power.

Everything went black.

Nico swore.

Sheree stood immediately.

“Generator?”

“Should’ve kicked in.”

It hadn’t.

Nico pulled a gun.

Sheree’s stomach dropped.

A second guard moved toward the rear hall.

Glass shattered.

A suppressed gunshot cracked from somewhere behind the house.

One of Roman’s men fell.

Sheree moved before fear caught up.

She dropped beside him.

Blood spread from his shoulder.

“Pressure.”

Nico fired twice toward the darkness.

Sheree pressed both hands against the wound.

The injured man gasped.

“Stay with me.”

Another impact hit the front door.

Nico shouted into his radio.

No response.

Sheree understood.

This wasn’t random.

The safe house had been exposed.

Again.

Someone inside Roman’s organization was still feeding information.

The front door splintered.

Nico grabbed Sheree’s arm.

“Back stairs.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“He can walk.”

The wounded guard forced himself upright.

They moved.

The rear alley smelled of snow and exhaust.

A black sedan waited.

Nico shoved open the door.

Then headlights appeared from the opposite end.

Too fast.

Trapping them.

A man stepped from the sedan.

Victor Sanz.

Sheree knew before anyone said his name.

Some people carried violence loudly.

Sanz wore his like perfume.

“Miss Carter.”

Nico raised his weapon.

Three red laser dots appeared across his chest.

Sanz smiled.

“Don’t.”

Nico froze.

Sanz’s attention returned to Sheree.

“You caused a lot of inconvenience.”

“I get that from patients.”

His smile disappeared.

“Roman gave you something.”

“No.”

“He told you something.”

“No.”

“You stitched him together in your kitchen for nearly an hour.”

Sheree’s blood chilled.

He knew details.

Sanz stepped closer.

“What did he say?”

“That your bedside manner sucks.”

His hand struck her face.

The world flashed white.

Sheree stumbled.

Nico lunged.

Someone hit him from behind.

He fell.

Sanz grabbed Sheree’s jaw.

“You think Vescari cares about you?”

“No.”

That seemed to surprise him.

Sheree tasted blood.

“I think he feels responsible.”

“For what?”

There it was.

The question beneath everything.

Before she could answer, another voice came from the mouth of the alley.

“Let her go.”

Roman.

He stood beneath a streetlight.

Alone.

No coat.

Black shirt.

His face unreadable.

Sanz smiled.

“I knew you’d come.”

Roman’s eyes went to Sheree’s bleeding lip.

Something cold entered them.

“You wanted me.”

“I wanted leverage.”

“You have it.”

Sanz looked pleased.

Sheree looked at Roman.

“No.”

He ignored her.

“Let her and Nico leave.”

Sanz laughed.

“You always did have one weakness.”

Roman’s face changed.

Sanz noticed.

So did Sheree.

“People who save you,” Sanz said.

Roman went still.

Sanz’s smile widened.

“First Marcus.”

Sheree stopped breathing.

Roman’s head turned slightly.

Too late.

Sanz looked at her.

And understood.

“Oh.”

His smile became cruel.

“He never told you.”

Sheree whispered, “Marcus?”

Roman stepped forward.

“Sanz.”

“What a beautiful little family reunion.”

“Shut your mouth.”

Sanz laughed.

“Ask him, nurse.”

Sheree looked at Roman.

The alley seemed to tilt.

“Ask him who was holding your brother when he died.”

Roman said nothing.

That silence broke something inside her.

Sanz reached for his weapon.

Roman moved.

Everything happened at once.

Nico dropped low.

A shot cracked.

Then another.

Sheree hit the pavement.

Roman crossed the space between them with brutal speed.

Sanz’s weapon flew.

Men shouted.

Tires screamed.

Sheree covered her head.

Thirty seconds later, it was over.

Sanz lay face-down in the snow with Roman’s men surrounding him.

Alive.

Barely.

Roman stood ten feet away.

Blood had opened through his bandage again.

But Sheree was staring at his face.

“Who was holding Marcus?”

Roman closed his eyes.

Sheree’s voice broke.

“Who was holding my brother when he died?”

Roman opened his eyes.