The footsteps stopped outside.

Sadie held her breath.

Someone tested the door.

Dante silently pointed toward the lock.

Sadie moved quickly and turned it.

“Mr. Russo?” a man's voice called.

Sadie looked at Dante.

He shook his head.

“Boss?”

Another knock.

Dante leaned closer.

“Don't answer.”

Sadie whispered, “You're barely conscious.”

“Still conscious enough.”

The person remained outside several seconds before walking away.

Sadie waited.

“Who was that?”

“Couldn't tell.”

“You have fifty people downstairs.”

“Thirty-two.”

“That's supposed to make me feel better?”

“No.”

Sadie inspected his wound.

“We need a doctor.”

“No.”

“You need stitches.”

“No hospitals.”

“I didn't say hospital.”

Dante studied her.

“You can do it?”

“I said three years of nursing school, not battlefield surgeon.”

“Close enough.”

“It absolutely isn't.”

For the first time, she saw amusement behind his exhaustion.

“There's a medical cabinet behind the painting.”

Sadie stared.

“Of course there is.”

She found supplies and returned.

“Take your shirt off.”

One eyebrow rose.

“That's direct.”

“You're bleeding all over a Persian rug. I think modesty has left the building.”

He unbuttoned the shirt with difficulty.

Sadie pulled it aside.

Dark tattoos crossed his chest and shoulder, connecting with the ink visible along his neck and forearm.

She focused on the injury.

“I'm going to clean this.”

“Do it.”

“This will hurt.”

“I've had worse.”

“Men always say that right before complaining.”

Dante gave her a look.

Sadie worked carefully.

Minutes passed.

His breathing gradually steadied.

Then he asked, “Gallagher.”

Sadie stopped.

“You know my last name?”

“I know everyone employed in my house.”

“Apparently not well enough.”

His expression cooled.

“What does that mean?”

“You think somebody downstairs betrayed you.”

“Observant.”

“Terrified, actually.”

She finished securing a clean dressing.

Dante looked toward the scattered papers.

“Help me up.”

“No.”

His eyes shifted toward her.

“Excuse me?”

“You've lost too much blood.”

“I wasn't asking.”

“And I'm not one of your men.”

Silence.

Then Dante actually smiled.

“You broke into my rooms and now you're giving orders.”

“I didn't break in. Your door was open.”

“That technicality may save your life.”

Sadie helped him onto a leather couch.

Then she noticed something under the overturned desk.

A silver cuff link.

She picked it up.

Dante's expression changed instantly.

“Give me that.”

Sadie handed it over.

Engraved on its surface were two initials.

V.R.

“Who is V.R.?”

Dante closed his fist around it.

“Someone who shouldn't have been here.”

“Who?”

“Vincent Russo.”

Sadie frowned.

“Russo?”

“My cousin.”

A knock suddenly came from the door again.

This time a familiar female voice followed.

“Mr. Russo?”

Rosa.

Sadie moved toward the door.

Dante caught her arm.

“No.”

“That's Rosa.”

“I know.”

“You trust her?”

Dante looked directly at her.

“I trusted everyone yesterday.”

That answer frightened Sadie more than the gun had.

Rosa knocked again.

“Sir? Are you awake?”

Dante motioned toward the bathroom.

“Hide.”

Sadie stared at him.

“You're serious?”

“Very.”

She stepped into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door slightly open.

Dante unlocked the study.

Rosa entered.

“You called for me?”

“No.”

A pause.

“I heard movement.”

“The storm.”

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly.”

Sadie could hear suspicion in Rosa's silence.

Then Rosa said, “Vincent arrived twenty minutes ago.”

Dante's expression hardened.

“Did he?”

“He says there's an emergency.”

“Tell him I'll see him tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosa left.

Sadie emerged.

“You think Vincent did this.”

“I think whoever did this believed I wouldn't survive until morning.”

“Then why come back?”

“To confirm it.”

Sadie's face paled.

Dante looked at her.

“You should leave Chicago.”

“What?”

“Tonight.”

“I can't.”

“Why?”

She hesitated.

“My father's debt.”

Dante's eyes sharpened.

“What debt?”

Sadie immediately regretted speaking.

“Nothing.”

“How much?”

“It's my problem.”

“Who holds it?”

“I don't know exactly.”

“You've been paying people without knowing who they are?”

“They know where I live.”

Dante studied her for several seconds.

Then something in his expression changed.

“What was your father's name?”

“Patrick Gallagher.”

Dante went completely still.

Sadie noticed.

“You knew him?”

“No.”

“You're lying.”

His gaze moved toward the storm-darkened window.

Finally he said, “Your father didn't owe gambling money.”

Sadie's stomach dropped.

“What?”

Dante looked back at her.

“He worked for me.”

“No.”

“He did.”

“My father repaired elevators.”

“That was his legitimate job.”

Sadie stepped backward.

“You're lying.”

“I wish I were.”

“Why?”

Dante opened his hand.

The silver cuff link gleamed against his palm.

“Because Patrick Gallagher discovered someone was stealing from my organization.”

Sadie stared at him.

“Who?”

Dante's answer was barely above a whisper.

“Vincent.”