He moved closer.

Hannah's pulse accelerated.

Then headlights appeared at the end of the street.

A black sedan stopped beside the curb.

The rear door opened.

Damen stepped out.

Evan looked at him.

The color drained from his face.

Damen's gaze moved from Evan to Hannah.

Then to the distance between them.

He understood.

“Get in the car,” he told Hannah.

Evan laughed nervously.

“This isn't your business.”

Damen looked at him.

“It became my business when I saw her bruises.”

Evan's jaw tightened.

“You don't know anything about us.”

“No.”

Damen took one slow step forward.

“But I'm very good at learning.”

Hannah's breath shook.

She had never seen Evan look afraid before.

Now she did.

Damen stopped.

He didn't threaten him.

He didn't need to.

“Walk away.”

Evan stared at him.

Then at Hannah.

“This isn't over.”

Damen's eyes hardened.

“For you, it is.”

Evan left.

Hannah stood motionless.

Damen turned toward her.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

He took off his coat and held it out.

She stared at it.

“You don't have to keep saving me.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

Damen looked at her.

Because the bruises had awakened something in him.

Because Sophia's death had never made sense.

Because a photograph from twenty-eight years ago had just connected his family to the woman standing before him.

Because somewhere in the past, someone had hidden a child from the Moretti name.

And because, against every instinct he had trained into himself, he had begun to care whether Hannah was afraid.

But he couldn't tell her any of that.

Not yet.

“Because it's raining.”

Hannah almost smiled.

She accepted the coat.

Their fingers touched for less than a second.

Neither moved.

Then Hannah looked toward him.

“Damen?”

“Yes?”

“What are you afraid of?”

The question caught him completely off guard.

For a long moment, the city's traffic moved around them.

Finally he answered.

“Finding out that I was too late.”

Hannah studied his face.

She didn't know what he meant.

Not yet.

But she understood the grief in his eyes.

And for the first time, she wondered whether the most dangerous man in Chicago wasn't protecting her because he wanted something from her.

Maybe he was protecting her because, somewhere along the way, he had recognized her pain as his own.

Neither of them noticed the figure watching from across the street.

The man lowered his phone.

“She's with Moretti.”

A voice answered through the receiver.

“Then it's time.”

He looked at the photograph in his hand.

A photograph of Sophia Moretti holding a newborn baby.

On the back, written in faded blue ink, were four words.

He must never know.

The man smiled.

“He knows now.”
::