Z

Victor Sloane survived Pier 19.

That disappointed Ethan.

Federal prosecutors considered it convenient.

Robert Reed survived too.

That disappointed almost everyone.

But surviving meant facing trial.

Victor was charged with kidnapping, conspiracy, money laundering, racketeering, attempted murder, and enough additional crimes that I stopped counting.

Robert faced murder charges connected to Dad’s death.

Judge Halpern resigned forty-eight hours before federal agents arrested him.

Six police officers were suspended.

Two city officials disappeared before surrendering.

Chicago newspapers called it the biggest corruption investigation in decades.

They also published photographs of Ethan Callahan entering the hospital.

That caused another storm.

For years, Ethan had been called untouchable.

Now half the city wanted to know why he had cooperated with federal investigators.

The other half wanted to know who Rachel Morales was.

I hated both questions.

Three days after the shooting, I entered Ethan’s hospital room carrying Sophie.

His face changed instantly.

Not when he saw me.

When he saw Sophie.

I noticed.

I pretended not to.

“You look terrible,” I told him.

“Good morning to you too.”

“You need a shave.”

“I was shot.”

“Apparently bullets prevent razors from working.”

He smiled.

Actually smiled.

I had learned those were rare.

Sophie reached toward him.

He hesitated.

“You can hold her.”

“I’m injured.”

“You have one functioning arm.”

“She’s small.”

“That’s generally how babies work.”

He looked nervous.

Ethan Callahan.

A man rumored to have negotiated deals with people who terrified elected officials.

Nervous about holding a baby.

I placed Sophie carefully against his chest.

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Then she grabbed his hospital gown.

“Strong grip,” he said.

“Morales women.”

“Dangerous.”

“Very.”

For ten peaceful minutes, nothing existed beyond that room.

Then Ethan became serious.

“Rachel.”

I hated that tone.

“What?”

“You should go home.”

“To California?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

“You're kicking me out?”

“No.”

“It sounds suspiciously similar.”

“Reporters are following you. Victor’s organization still exists even if he’s detained. Staying near me creates risk.”

“Sophie and I had risks before we met you.”

“Not these.”

He was pushing me away.

I understood why.

I still hated it.

“Is this what you do?”

“What?”

“Decide what’s best for everyone, then issue instructions?”

“Usually.”

“That must be lonely.”

He looked toward the window.

Bull’s-eye.

“You helped my sister,” I said. “You helped me. You took a bullet.”

“That doesn’t create a debt.”

“I know.”

“Then leave before it becomes something else.”

My heart beat harder.

“What if it already did?”

He finally looked at me.

Silence.

Pain flickered across his face that had nothing to do with the gunshot.

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.”

“No. You know what I showed you.”

“Then show me the rest.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“Stop deciding what mistakes I’m allowed to make.”

Sophie stirred between us.

We both went quiet.

Then Ethan whispered, “You should want normal.”

I laughed softly.

“Ethan, I’m a single mother who works double shifts in a twenty-four-hour diner and counts quarters before buying diapers. My sister almost married the son of the man who helped murder our father. I met you while my baby screamed at thirty thousand feet.”

I leaned closer.

“Normal left a while ago.”

His mouth moved.

Almost a smile.

Then I became serious.

“I’m not asking to join your world.”

“I would never ask you to.”

“Good.”

“And I’m not asking you to save me.”

He understood that too.

“Then what are you asking?”

“For honesty.”

His face tightened.

“That could cost me everything.”

“Maybe everything you have isn’t worth keeping.”

That sentence stayed with him.

I could tell.

A week later, Ethan left the hospital.

A month later, federal filings revealed something nobody expected.

Ethan Callahan began selling controlling interests in three businesses long rumored to connect the Callahan organization to criminal activity.

He fired executives.

Closed clubs.

Turned over records.

People said he had betrayed the old code.

He said nothing publicly.

Privately, he called me one night.

“I hate you.”

I laughed.

“What did I do?”

“You said something.”

“I say many things.”

“Everything I have may not be worth keeping.”

I smiled.

“And?”

“Now it’s stuck in my head.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It is.”

He paused.

“How’s Sophie?”

“Teething.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means neither of us sleeps.”

Another pause.

“Come back to Chicago.”

My heart stopped.

“For what?”

“Not forever.”

He sounded almost nervous.

That alone made me sit down.

“Dinner.”

I smiled.

“Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Callahan?”

“I’m attempting to.”

“You negotiate multimillion-dollar contracts.”

“Yes.”

“And this is hard?”

“Apparently.”

“Say the words.”

Silence.

Then:

“Rachel Morales, would you have dinner with me?”

I let him suffer for three seconds.

“Yes.”

We returned to Chicago two weeks later.

This time, I bought Sophie noise-reducing baby earmuffs.

This time, she slept almost the entire flight.

No angry passengers.

No cruel businessman.

No stranger beside me.

Ethan was waiting when we landed.

Not on the private tarmac.

Inside the ordinary arrivals hall.

No bodyguards beside him.

No black convoy visible.

Just Ethan.

He held a bouquet.

Not roses.

Sunflowers.

“How did you know?”

“Nora.”

“Smart woman.”

“She’s unbearable.”

I smiled.

Sophie recognized him.

Her entire face lit up.

Ethan’s expression softened.

And for one ridiculous second, everyone else in O’Hare disappeared.

He stepped closer.

“You came.”

“You asked.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“You should work on confidence.”

“I’ve been told I have too much.”

“Not about everything.”

He looked at me.

“No.”

Then he leaned down.

Slowly enough that I could move away.

I didn’t.

His kiss was gentle.

Almost careful.

Nothing like the man Chicago had invented in headlines.

When he pulled back, Sophie made an excited squeal between us.

I laughed.

Ethan closed his eyes.

“I have competition.”

“You always will.”

His hand settled lightly at my back.

And we walked toward the exit together.

Then I saw the man waiting near the doors.

Gray coat.

Baseball cap.

Watching us.

The moment our eyes met, he turned away.

Ethan noticed.

His entire body changed.

“What?”

He handed me the flowers.

“Stay here.”

“Ethan?”

But he was already moving.

The man disappeared into the crowd.

Security converged.

Thirty seconds later, one of Ethan’s guards returned holding a small envelope.

“He dropped this.”

Ethan opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

My father.

Alive.

The date stamped on the back was six months after his supposed death.

I stopped breathing.

“That’s impossible.”

Ethan turned the photograph over.

Five handwritten words covered the back.

GABRIEL MORALES DIDN’T DIE THERE.