Six years had passed since anyone had shared my bed, and I had made certain no one ever would again.
Then one winter night, I found my sick housekeeper curled beneath my blankets—and by morning, she had become the first person I trusted enough to keep alive.
Moonlight cut across my bedroom floor, catching a pair of worn black shoes beside the nightstand.
They were small, practical, and definitely not mine.
My hand slipped beneath my jacket.
No one entered Matteo DeLuca's private suite without permission.
Not my security chief.
Not my family.
Not even the longtime staff who had served my Chicago estate for decades.
Yet someone was breathing beneath my charcoal blankets.
I crossed the room without making a sound.
Twenty years of surviving men who smiled while planning murder had taught me how to move quietly. The city saw tailored suits, black cars, expensive restaurants, and newspaper photographs where politicians pretended they didn't know me.
What they didn't see were the nights.
The constant checking of doors.
The gun beneath my pillow.
The instinct that woke me whenever a floorboard creaked.
Six years ago, I had learned that safety was something powerful men invented so they could sleep.
I hadn't slept properly since.
I reached the bed and pulled back the covers.
I expected a weapon.
A recording device.
An assassin waiting for me to lower my guard.
Instead, I found Elena Marlowe.
The newest housekeeper on my staff was curled near the edge of my mattress like she had tried to occupy as little space as humanly possible.
Her brown hair had fallen loose from the neat knot she wore while working. One hand clutched the front of her gray uniform.
Her cheeks were flushed red.
Her breathing was shallow.
She wasn't here to kill me.
She was burning with fever.
For several seconds, I simply stared.
Elena had worked at the estate for eleven weeks.
She was twenty-eight, quiet without being timid, and unlike almost everyone around me, she never tried too hard to impress me.
She polished furniture.
Changed linens.
Carried laundry.
Made coffee for the older staff before beginning her own shift.
And whenever I entered a room, she acknowledged me respectfully and continued whatever she was doing.
Most people stopped breathing when I walked past.
Elena once asked me to move my shoe because I was standing on the section of marble she had just cleaned.
I had liked her immediately.
Which was precisely why I had avoided her.
I pressed the back of my fingers against her forehead.
Her skin felt dangerously hot.
Elena stirred.
Then, still asleep, she turned her face toward the warmth of my hand.
That small, unconscious movement hit me harder than any threat ever had.
I remembered another woman doing that.
Another winter.
Another bedroom.
Another life.
I pulled my hand away.
I could have called security.
I should have.
A member of my household staff had somehow entered the most restricted room in the estate. Even if she had done it accidentally, the breach needed to be investigated.
Instead, I removed my shoes.
I set my jacket over the chair.
And I lay down on the far side of the mattress.
Fully dressed.
Back toward her.
Enough distance between us to convince myself it meant nothing.
For six years, sleep had come only in fragments.
But that night, listening to Elena breathe, I slept until sunlight touched the curtains.
I woke before she did.
My first thought was that something was wrong.
My second was that nothing was wrong.
That frightened me more.
I had slept nearly five uninterrupted hours.
No nightmares.
No gunshots exploding inside memories.
No waking with my fingers wrapped around a weapon.
Then Elena shifted.
Her eyes opened.
For one peaceful second, she looked confused.
Then she saw me.
Pure horror crossed her face.
She scrambled backward so quickly she nearly fell from the mattress.
"Mr. DeLuca."
Her voice was hoarse.
I sat up.
In my hand was the glass of water I had poured ten minutes earlier.
She looked at me.
Then the bed.
Then herself.
Her face turned crimson.
"I'm sorry."
"Drink."
"I can explain."
"After you drink."
She obeyed.
Her hands shook around the glass.
"I wasn't searching for anything," she whispered. "I was changing the sheets yesterday afternoon. I felt dizzy. I thought I'd sit down for one minute, and then..."
"Fell asleep in my bed."
Elena closed her eyes.
"Yes."
"Interesting survival strategy."
Her eyes snapped open.
"Am I fired?"
I studied her.
Most people lied when they were afraid of me.
Elena looked sick, humiliated, and painfully honest.
"That depends."
"On what?"
I reached beneath the pillow.
"On why someone poisoned your tea."
The embarrassment disappeared from her face.
"What?"
I pulled out the folded note I had discovered after waking.
Elena's name was written across the front in black ink.
I opened it.
Six words.
She heard what happened six years ago.
Elena stared at the message.
All remaining color drained from her face.
She looked at me.
I looked at her.
Neither of us spoke.
Then the bedroom door handle moved.
Once.
Slowly.
Someone was trying the lock.
Elena froze.
I stood immediately.
The handle stopped.
Silence.
I crossed the room.
"Behind me."
She didn't argue.
That was another thing I liked about Elena.
She understood when a situation didn't require questions.
I drew my gun and approached the door.
"Who is it?"
No answer.
I unlocked it and pulled it open.
The hallway was empty.
At least, it appeared empty.
Then I noticed something near the floor.
A porcelain teacup.
Placed carefully outside my door.
Elena made a small sound behind me.
I crouched.
Inside the cup was a dark residue.
The same herbal tea she drank every evening.
Someone had wanted me to see it.
"Don't touch anything," I said.
"Mr. DeLuca—"
"Matteo."
She stared.
It was the first time I had ever told a staff member to use my first name.
"Matteo," she whispered. "I don't know what this means."
I turned toward her.
"That's the wrong answer."
Fear flickered in her eyes.
"I don't."
"The note says you heard what happened six years ago."
"I don't even know what happened six years ago."
I watched her carefully.
Her breathing was too fast.
But not deceptive.
Elena was afraid of whatever was happening, not of being caught in a lie.
I lowered the gun slightly.
"Who gave you the tea yesterday?"
She thought.
"I made it myself."
"Where?"
"The staff kitchen."
"Did you leave it unattended?"
"I..."
Her expression changed.
"For maybe two minutes. Mrs. Hall asked me to carry clean linens upstairs."
"Who was in the kitchen?"
"I don't remember."
"You need to."
She closed her eyes.
"There was Daniel from maintenance. Rosa was preparing dinner. Peter came through looking for coffee. And..."
Her forehead creased.
"And?"
"Your uncle."
My jaw tightened.
"Vincenzo?"
She nodded.
"He wasn't staying. He walked through."
My uncle had not stepped into the staff kitchen in twenty years.
I looked down at the cup.
Six years ago, Vincenzo DeLuca had been one of three people who knew the truth about the night that destroyed my family.
Two were dead.
I was the third.
Or so I had believed.
"Get dressed."
Elena blinked.
"I am dressed."
"Not in your uniform."
"What am I supposed to wear?"
"Something warm."
She stared at me.
"Why?"
"Because you're leaving this house."
Her expression collapsed.
"So I am fired."
"No."
"Then where am I going?"
"Somewhere nobody knows."
Her lips parted.
"I have an apartment."
"So does every person who wants to find you."
"Matteo, I don't understand."
I stepped closer.
"Someone drugged you. Someone entered my bedroom while you were sleeping—or knew you would end up here. Someone left a message connecting you to the worst night of my life."
Her eyes searched mine.
"And you think I'm in danger."
"I know you are."
"Because of something I heard?"
"Apparently."
"But I don't remember hearing anything."
"Then we'll figure out what they think you heard."
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"My purse is downstairs."
"It will be brought."
"My phone—"
"Stays here."
She looked alarmed.
"I need my phone."
"Your phone tells people where you are."
"I'm not involved in your world."
"Neither were several people buried because of it."
The sentence came out colder than I intended.
Elena went quiet.
I hated the fear in her face.
Not because she feared danger.
Because she feared me.
I holstered the gun.
"Listen carefully. I am not holding you prisoner."
"That sounded suspiciously like something a man holding me prisoner would say."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
"You may leave whenever you want."
"Good."
"But if you walk outside this estate alone today, there's a possibility whoever drugged you will try again."
Her courage lasted about three seconds.
"Where are we going?"
Before I answered, heavy footsteps approached.
My security chief, Luca Ferraro, appeared at the end of the hall.
He stopped when he saw Elena standing inside my bedroom.
His eyebrows rose.
I gave him a look.
They immediately lowered.
"Boss."
"Lock down the estate."
His expression changed.
"Threat?"
"Internal."
That single word transformed the hallway.
Luca reached for his radio.
"Nobody leaves."
"No one," I confirmed.
He glanced at Elena.
"And Ms. Marlowe?"
"With me."
It was not a request.
Twenty minutes later, Elena sat inside the rear of my armored SUV wearing jeans, a cream sweater, and a coat that belonged to someone on the staff.
Chicago moved past the tinted windows beneath a gray winter sky.
She sat as far from me as the backseat allowed.
"Where are we going?"
"My lake house."
"You have a lake house?"
"I have several houses."
"Of course you do."
I looked at her.
"You're surprisingly sarcastic for someone who believes she's being kidnapped."
"You said I wasn't."
"Correct."
"So I'm choosing optimism."
For the first time that morning, I smiled.
It lasted less than a second.
But Elena noticed.
Then her expression became serious.
"Matteo."
"Yes?"
"What happened six years ago?"
The city disappeared behind us.
I looked through the window.
Six years ago.
A rainy October evening.
My wife, Sofia.
My younger brother, Gabriel.
A black Mercedes torn apart on Lower Wacker Drive.
Two funerals.
One surviving man.
And a truth I had spent six years protecting because exposing it would have started a war that might have consumed half the city.
I looked at Elena.
"I lost two people."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
"Why?"
"Because the story everyone knows isn't true."
She went very still.
"What is true?"
Before I could answer, Luca's voice came through the driver's radio.
"Boss."
"What?"
"We've got a vehicle behind us."
I glanced through the rear window.
Black SUV.
Three cars back.
"How long?"
"Since Lake Shore."
"Can you identify?"
"Plates are stolen."
Elena's hand tightened around the seat belt.
I reached beneath my coat.
"Change route."
The driver turned abruptly.
The SUV behind us turned too.
Luca cursed.
"Confirmed."
Elena looked at me.
"Is that them?"
"I don't know."
The SUV accelerated.
So did ours.
Traffic blurred outside.
"Matteo."
"Get down."
She obeyed.
A moment later, something struck the rear window.
Elena screamed.
The armored glass held.
Another impact.
The driver's voice rose.
"Shots."
I pulled Elena down beside me.
My body covered hers instinctively.
Her hands grabbed my shirt.
The vehicle swerved.
For one second, her terrified eyes met mine.
And suddenly I was no longer inside an armored SUV in Chicago.
I was six years in the past.
Sofia screaming.
Gabriel shouting into a phone.
Headlights.
Gunfire.
Blood.
I blinked hard.
Not again.
I would not lose another person because she happened to stand too close to me.
I looked at Luca.
"End it."
He nodded.
Our second security vehicle moved behind us, cutting between our SUV and the attackers.
Within thirty seconds, the pursuing car disappeared onto another street.
But Elena remained against my chest.
She was trembling.
I expected her to pull away.
She didn't.
Instead she whispered, "Whatever happened six years ago..."
I looked down.
"What?"
"I think someone believes it's happening again."
The words settled heavily between us.
Because she was right.
And for the first time in six years, I had something I was afraid to lose.