Wren Ashby never expected a routine afternoon at the Contini estate to turn her into the target of a deadly attack. When she throws herself into danger and survives five bullets meant for Rafael Contini’s mother, the city’s most untouchable man decides that saving Wren’s life is no longer enough—he intends to protect everything she has kept hidden. But Wren knows Rafael can never discover the truth behind her brother, her desperate financial circumstances, and the secret that brought her into his family’s orbit. Because the closer Rafael gets, the harder it becomes to tell whether she is being protected by the most dangerous man in Chicago… or trapped by him.
Wren Ashby had exactly twelve minutes left on the clock when Isabetta Contini flexed her stiff fingers and frowned.
“Again.”
Wren sighed.
“Mrs. Contini, I’ve already worked that joint for twenty minutes.”
“Then work it for twenty-one.”
“If I press any harder, you’ll bruise.”
Isabetta finally looked away from the manicured lawn outside the sunroom windows.
“You argue with me too much.”
“You keep hiring me.”
A thin smile touched the older woman’s mouth.
“That is because everyone else is terrified of me.”
“I’m terrified of my landlord. You’re somewhere around fourth place.”
Isabetta laughed.
It was the only reason Wren had lasted six months as the physical therapist for the mother of Rafael Contini, a man Chicago newspapers politely called a businessman and everyone else called something quieter.
Dangerous.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
Wren didn't care what Rafael Contini did.
The Continis paid on time.
That money kept her younger brother Toby inside Ridgeline Recovery, where he was finally rebuilding his life after years of bad choices.
That was enough.
Wren glanced at the clock.
Eleven minutes.
“Relax your hand.”
“I am relaxed.”
“You're threatening my fingers.”
“They know what they did.”
Isabetta snorted.
Wren smiled despite herself.
She had learned quickly that Isabetta hated pity more than pain. The older woman had spent her life surrounded by people who either feared her or wanted something from her. Wren did neither.
Maybe that was why Isabetta trusted her.
Maybe it was because Wren treated her like a stubborn patient instead of the matriarch of one of Chicago's most powerful families.
Whatever the reason, Wren had become accustomed to these afternoons.
The quiet sunroom.
The scent of lemon polish and Isabetta's expensive perfume.
The distant fountain outside.
And the strange sense that, for two hours at a time, she had accidentally stepped into another world.
Then heavy footsteps approached.
Wren looked up.
Rafael entered carrying his suit jacket over one arm.
He looked exhausted.
Dark hair pushed back carelessly. Black shirt open at the collar. A faint line of ink showed along one wrist before disappearing beneath his sleeve.
His eyes moved first to his mother.
Not Wren.
They rarely did.
“You're late,” Isabetta said.
“Traffic.”
“You own half the companies creating the traffic.”
“I'll speak to the mayor.”
Wren packed her lotion into her bag.
“I'm finished.”
Rafael poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter.
“My mother improving?”
“Slowly.”
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.”
Rafael looked over.
For the first time, his mouth almost curved.
Then the window exploded.
Wren didn't hear the first gunshot.
She heard reinforced glass tearing apart.
Rafael dropped the glass.
“DOWN!”
Everything happened at once.
Security shouted outside.
A dark SUV tore across the lawn.
Someone screamed.
Wren turned toward the oak table.
Her foot hit the lotion jar she had dropped.
The floor disappeared beneath her.
Her ankle tangled in the Persian rug.
And instead of falling toward safety, she pitched directly toward Isabetta.
The first impact struck her shoulder.
Another drove the air from her lungs.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
Wren crashed against Isabetta's chair and dragged the older woman down with her.
The shooting stopped seconds later.
Wren barely heard it.
She stared at the marble beneath her cheek.
Warmth spread beneath her white scrubs.
Rafael appeared above them.
“Ma!”
“I'm alive.”
“Were you hit?”
“No.”
His hands searched Isabetta's shoulders, her arms, her face.
Then the older woman grabbed his jaw.
“Rafael.”
“What?”
“Her.”
He turned.
Wren was lying partly across Isabetta.
Isabetta's voice broke.
“She covered me.”
Wren tried to speak.
No.
I slipped.
That was what she wanted to say.
Instead, she coughed.
Rafael's expression changed.
The calm disappeared.
He dropped beside her.
“Wren.”
She had never heard him use her first name.
His hands pressed against her side.
Pain exploded through her.
She cried out.
“I know,” Rafael said. “I know.”
“Hurts.”
“Stay awake.”
“Not planning… vacation.”
She almost laughed.
It came out as another weak cough.
Isabetta reached down and squeezed her hand.
“You foolish girl.”
Wren looked at her.
Isabetta was crying.
That frightened Wren more than the bullets.
Rafael leaned closer.
“Ambulance is coming.”
“Rafael.”
“What?”
“My bag.”
He frowned.
“What about it?”
“Don't lose it.”
“There’s nothing in that bag worth your life.”
“My brother's paperwork.”
Something hardened in Rafael's face.
“I'll find it.”
“You don't even know him.”
“I will.”
Wren's vision darkened.
Rafael gripped her hand.
“Look at me.”
She forced her eyes open.
“You saved my mother.”
Wren tried again.
“It wasn't—”
Darkness swallowed the sentence.
When she woke, a machine beeped beside her.
For several seconds, Wren didn't know where she was.
White ceiling.
Muted voices.
The sterile smell of antiseptic.
Her body felt like it had been dropped from a building.
“Don't move.”
She turned her head.
Rafael sat in the corner.
Same black trousers.
Same shirt.
Except the front was stained dark.
With her blood.
“How long?” she whispered.
“Thirty-seven hours.”
Her throat burned.
“Water.”
He stood immediately.
Not a nurse.
Not an assistant.
Rafael Contini himself held a damp sponge to her lips.
“Slow.”
She swallowed.
“What happened?”
“You were shot five times.”
“I guessed that part.”
“Three broken ribs. Damaged kidney. Shattered scapula. One bullet passed two millimeters from your spine.”
Wren stared at him.
“And your mother?”
“Untouched.”
She exhaled.
Rafael lowered his voice.
“She’s alive because of you.”
Guilt hit harder than pain.
Wren hadn't jumped.
She hadn't heroically thrown herself in front of Isabetta.
She had slipped.
A stupid accident.
A terrible accident.
She opened her mouth.
Rafael continued.
“My doctors are handling everything.”
“I don't have insurance for—”
“You're not paying.”
“Rafael—”
“Your brother's Ridgeline account has also been handled.”
Wren froze.
“What?”
“Toby Ashby. Room 214.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“How do you know that?”
“Your paperwork was in the bag.”
“You read it?”
“I was making sure the person you nearly died worrying about was protected.”
“My brother is not your responsibility.”
Rafael leaned closer.
“No.”
His eyes settled on hers.
“You are.”
Wren's heart jumped.
“That sounds threatening.”
“It’s a promise.”
She stared at him.
“I work for your mother.”
“You did.”
“Did she fire me?”
“No.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
Rafael pulled the chair closer.
“You stopped being an employee the second you took five bullets meant for her.”
Wren looked away.
If he knew the truth…
Everything would change.
“Rafael.”
“Yes?”
She should have said it.
I slipped.