Rebecca gave her a long look.

“Apparently.”

A doctor entered several minutes later.

He examined her, ordered blood work, and told her she needed rest.

Hannah argued.

The doctor won.

When he left, she stared at the ceiling.

She hated hospitals.

They smelled like antiseptic and helplessness.

Her mother had spent her last weeks in one.

Hannah had been twenty-three.

She still remembered the sound of machines after visiting hours.

The way her mother's hand had become lighter inside hers.

The way she had whispered, “Don't spend your life taking care of everyone except yourself.”

Hannah had promised.

She had broken that promise almost immediately.

A knock sounded at the door.

She turned.

Damen stood there.

He had changed clothes.

Dark suit.

White shirt.

No tie.

He looked less like a stranger now and more like the kind of man newspapers mentioned without ever telling the whole story.

Hannah's spine stiffened.

“You.”

“Yes.”

“How did you find me?”

“I made a phone call.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“No.”

She watched him carefully.

“You followed the ambulance?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

His gaze moved briefly to her wrist.

Hannah instinctively pulled her sleeve lower.

Damen noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“I'm checking whether you're all right.”

“I have doctors.”

“I know.”

“Then you can leave.”

He didn't.

The silence stretched.

Finally he said, “Who did that to you?”

Hannah's stomach tightened.

“Excuse me?”

“The bruises.”

“There are no bruises.”

“I saw them.”

“You must have misunderstood.”

“I didn't.”

She looked away.

Damen stepped closer but stopped several feet from the bed.

He didn't touch her.

He didn't need to.

His presence filled the room.

“You're afraid of someone.”

Hannah laughed softly.

It wasn't amusement.

“You don't know me.”

“No.”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“I know you work too much.”

“That describes half the city.”

“I know you haven't been sleeping.”

She looked at him.

“I know you keep apologizing when other people inconvenience you.”

Her expression hardened.

“And I know you looked at the door twice since I walked in.”

Hannah's breath caught.

He continued quietly.

“You're calculating whether you can leave through it.”

“Are you always this invasive?”

“Yes.”

At least he was honest.

She looked at him for several seconds.

“What do you want?”

“I don't know yet.”

“That isn't reassuring.”

“It wasn't meant to be.”

For the first time, something almost resembling a smile touched his mouth.

It disappeared quickly.

Damen reached into his coat and placed a business card on the table.

“If you need anything, call.”

Hannah didn't touch it.

“Why?”

“Because someone hurt you.”

“And you care because?”

His eyes darkened.

“Because I know what happens when people decide nobody will notice.”

The words struck somewhere she hadn't expected.

He turned toward the door.

“Wait.”

He stopped.

Hannah stared at the business card.

“What's your name?”

“Damen Moretti.”

The blood seemed to leave her face.

She knew the name.

Everyone in Chicago knew the name.

Moretti Shipping.

Moretti Holdings.

Nightclubs.

Restaurants.

Rumors.

Men who disappeared from rooms and never returned.

Her eyes lifted.

“You're him.”

Damen's expression didn't change.

“That depends on what you've heard.”

“That you're dangerous.”

“Yes.”

She swallowed.

“Then why did you save me?”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“Because you were falling.”

And he left.

Hannah didn't touch the card for almost ten minutes.

When she finally did, her fingers trembled.

That afternoon, she returned home against medical advice.

Her apartment was small, warm, and painfully quiet.

She hung her coat beside the door.

Then she locked it.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Only then did she breathe.

She walked to the bathroom and rolled up her sleeve.

The bruises looked worse in daylight.

Hannah stared at them.

She could still hear her boyfriend's voice.

You make me angry.

You know what happens when you make me angry.

Evan had never apologized.

Not really.

He simply became gentle afterward.

That was what made leaving so difficult.

The flowers.

The apologies.

The promises.

Then the same fear.

The same hand around her wrist.

The same careful smile afterward.

Hannah lowered her sleeve.

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown number.

She didn't answer.

It stopped.

A second later, a message appeared.

You don't have to answer. I just wanted to know you got home safely.

She stared at the screen.

She knew who it was.

She didn't reply.

Across the city, Damen sat in a dark office overlooking the river.

Marco placed a file on his desk.

“Hannah Brooks.”

Damen opened it.

Nurse.

Twenty-eight.

No criminal record.

No significant financial problems.

No connection to organized crime.

One previous relationship.

Evan Cole.

Damen's eyes stopped.

“What's wrong with him?”

“Nothing on paper.”

“Meaning?”

“He owns a private security company.”

Damen looked up.

Marco continued.

“Cole's company has done contract work for three firms connected to the Falcone organization.”

The room became very quiet.

“Coincidence?”

“Maybe.”

Damen closed the file.

“Find out.”

Marco nodded.

Then hesitated.

“There is something else.”

Damen looked up.

“Her mother.”

“What about her?”

“She died eleven months ago.”

“How?”

“Cancer.”

Damen's expression remained neutral.

Marco slid another photograph across the desk.

The photograph showed Hannah's mother twenty years earlier.

Standing beside a younger Sophia Moretti.

Damen stopped breathing.

“Where did you get this?”

“An old hospital archive.”

He picked it up.

Sophia was smiling.

Hannah's mother stood beside her.

And between them was a newborn baby.

Damen stared at the photograph.

“That's Hannah.”

“Yes.”

“How old is this?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

Damen's fingers tightened around the edge.

Sophia had been twenty-one.

She had disappeared from the Moretti family for several months that year.

When she returned, she refused to explain where she had been.

Damen had never pressed her.

Then, years later, she died.

He had spent nine years believing her death was the end of the mystery.

It wasn't.

“Find everything Sophia knew about Hannah.”

Marco's voice lowered.

“You think Sophia was protecting her?”

“I think my sister spent the last years of her life afraid of someone.”

“Who?”

Damen looked again at Hannah's photograph.

“I don't know.”

His phone rang.

Unknown number.

He answered.

“Moretti.”

A man's voice came through.

“You should have left the nurse alone.”

Damen's expression became empty.

“Who is this?”

“You know exactly who.”

The call ended.

Marco stood.

“Falcone?”

Damen looked toward the rain beginning again against the windows.

“No.”

He remembered Hannah's bruises.

He remembered Sophia.

Then he remembered the photograph.

“Someone who has been waiting for me to find her.”

That evening, Hannah stood outside West Haven Community Clinic.

She had returned to work too soon.

Of course she had.

The street was almost empty.

She reached for the clinic door.

A voice came from behind her.

“Hannah.”

She froze.

Evan.

He stood beneath a streetlamp.

Hands in his coat pockets.

Smiling.

The old familiar smile.

The one that always made her stomach tighten.

“You disappeared.”

“I went home.”

“You didn't answer my calls.”

“I needed space.”

His smile faded.

“You don't get to decide that.”

Hannah stepped backward.

“Evan.”

“Come home.”

“No.”

Something changed in his face.

The softness disappeared.

“You've been talking to someone.”

She said nothing.

“Who?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“You're lying.”