Damian refused to believe Dominic Rusk had betrayed him.
Not completely.
Not yet.
I could see the conflict in every movement.
“D could mean anything,” he said.
“It could,” I agreed.
“Do not look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know.”
“I know Walsh is terrified.”
“That doesn’t make him truthful.”
“No.”
“Mercer could have fed him Dominic’s initial.”
“Yes.”
He paced across the Beacon Hill study.
I watched him.
“You want me to argue with you.”
“I want evidence.”
“That is reasonable.”
He stopped.
“You agree?”
“I’m not trying to turn you against your friend.”
“Brother.”
The word came automatically.
That told me everything.
Damian and Dominic had grown up in South Boston.
Damian’s father had been murdered when Damian was nineteen.
Dominic had stood beside him through everything that followed.
Business wars.
Federal investigations.
Street violence.
The transformation from two angry young men with nothing into the empire Damian controlled now.
People called Dominic Rusk Damian’s shadow.
Damian called him family.
That made him either the least likely traitor imaginable.
Or the perfect one.
Dominic arrived at the house that evening.
He carried whiskey.
He kissed my cheek like we were old friends.
“Claire Bennett. I hear you saved this miserable bastard’s life.”
Damian leaned against the bar.
“She told me not to drink something.”
“That counts.”
Dominic smiled.
He was handsome in a polished, effortless way.
Light brown hair.
Blue eyes.
Tailored gray suit.
No visible tension.
If he was betraying Damian, he was extraordinarily good at hiding it.
He poured three drinks.
I declined.
“Nurse?”
“Working.”
“You’re always working.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Dominic handed Damian a glass.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Ridiculous.
The bottle was sealed.
I had watched him open it.
Still, Damian noticed my reaction.
He set the glass down untouched.
Dominic laughed.
“Have we reached the stage where she supervises your alcohol?”
“Apparently.”
“I approve.”
He turned to me.
“Someone should keep him alive.”
The sentence sounded harmless.
My instincts disagreed.
“What happened to Adrian Walsh?” Dominic asked.
Damian gave no visible reaction.
“Why?”
“I heard there was trouble at the clinic.”
“From whom?”
“Gabriel.”
That could be verified.
Dominic shrugged.
“Do I need a formal invitation to worry?”
“No.”
Damian studied him.
“Walsh admitted treating Mercer’s soldier.”
Dominic’s expression hardened.
“That son of a—”
“He says he was threatened.”
“Everyone says that when caught.”
“He says someone inside my organization arranged it.”
Dominic stopped.
There.
For less than a second.
A pause.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
I did.
Then he recovered.
“Who?”
“He doesn’t know.”
Dominic exhaled.
“Then we find out.”
Damian lifted the whiskey again.
This time he drank.
I hated how relieved I felt.
Later, after Dominic left, I said, “He paused.”
Damian looked toward the door.
“I noticed.”
“Did he always know Walsh?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Not well enough.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Damian turned toward me.
I regretted the sharpness immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re right.”
He sat.
For the first time since I had met him, Damian looked his age.
Not the legend.
Not the boss.
Just a man approaching forty who had spent too many years wondering which people around him might eventually become enemies.
I sat across from him.
“What happened after your mother died?”
His gaze lifted.
“You don’t quit.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because people tell you what matters by what they refuse to talk about.”
He almost smiled.
“My father became worse.”
“Worse how?”
“Violent. Paranoid. He blamed everybody.”
“Did he blame you?”
A long silence.
“Yes.”
I waited.
“Dominic was the one person who stayed,” Damian said. “When my father died, everyone expected his organization to collapse. Dominic didn’t.”
“He helped you build this.”
“He helped me survive.”
And there it was.
This wasn’t simply suspicion.
To investigate Dominic meant questioning a piece of Damian’s own history.
I reached across the table.
My hand covered his.
He stared down at it.
“I hope Walsh is wrong,” I said.
“So do I.”
The next morning, I returned to Crosswell to examine the remaining Cardioxyl-B vials.
Five sealed containers.
One missing.
But something bothered me.
Research medication was shipped with temperature sensors.
The remaining boxes showed a delivery date three months earlier.
The courier record bore a signature.
D. Rusk.
I stared at it.
My stomach sank.
When I showed Damian, he said nothing.
He simply photographed the page.
We pulled loading-dock video from an independent security backup.
At 11:42 p.m. on the delivery night, Dominic entered Crosswell.
He remained seventeen minutes.
No scheduled meeting.
No recorded patient.
No explanation.
Damian watched the footage twice.
Then he called Dominic.
“Come to Pier Nine.”
He hung up before Dominic could answer.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Getting the truth.”
“You’re confronting him?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“I’m coming.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Damian—”
“No.”
“Walsh asked for me specifically.”
“And somebody tried to shoot you yesterday.”
“That argument is becoming repetitive.”
“It will remain repetitive until people stop trying to kill you.”
“I can help.”
“You have helped enough.”
The words hurt.
I stepped back.
His face changed immediately.
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out honestly.”
“No. Claire.”
I shook my head.
“You want to protect me. I understand.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t get to decide I’m useful when you need my observations and helpless when you don’t.”
“That isn’t what I think.”
“It is what you’re doing.”
Damian exhaled.
Then he walked toward me.
“Do you know what happened when that gun came out at the gala?”
“Yes. You shoved me behind you.”
“No.”
His voice lowered.
“For one second, I thought I was too slow.”
I said nothing.
“I have been shot. Stabbed. Arrested. Hunted. None of it scared me the way that second did.”
“Damian…”
“You are not coming to Pier Nine.”
There was no arrogance in his voice now.
Only fear.
That changed everything.
I touched his face.
His eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, the distance between us had nearly vanished.
“Come back,” I whispered.
His hand settled at my waist.
“I intend to.”
Then he kissed me.
Not like a mafia boss claiming something.
Like a man who had spent years denying himself anything that could be taken away.
Slow.
Careful.
Almost hesitant.
That surprised me most.
When we separated, his forehead rested against mine.
“You make terrible decisions,” I whispered.
“That has been mentioned.”
“You’re still going without me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“Come back anyway.”
“I will.”
Damian left with Gabriel and six men.
I remained at Crosswell with security.
For two hours, nothing happened.
Then my phone rang.
The caller ID showed Damian’s number.
I answered instantly.
“Damian?”
Static.
Then a voice.
Not Damian.
“Claire.”
Dominic.
Every hair on my arms rose.
“Where is Damian?”
“Pier Nine.”
“What happened?”
“Mercer ambushed them.”
My heart stopped.
“Is he alive?”
“Yes. But he’s hurt.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse Four. I’m sending a car.”
My instincts screamed.
Something was wrong.
“If he’s hurt, why isn’t Gabriel calling?”
Silence.
Then Dominic sighed.
“You really do notice everything.”
I stood slowly.
The clinic hallway seemed suddenly empty.
“Dominic.”
“I was hoping you’d make this easy.”
A door clicked behind me.
I turned.
Dr. Walsh stood there.
Except he wasn’t alone.
A man held a gun against his back.
Dominic’s voice continued through the phone.
“Come downstairs, Claire.”
I looked toward the nearest alarm.
“Don’t.”
Another man appeared.
Then another.
Security should have stopped them.
Unless security had been redirected.
Or bought.
“Where is Damian?”
Dominic chuckled softly.
“Still alive.”
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“Because Damian Cross has finally developed a weakness.”
My blood turned cold.
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
I remembered the crimson dress.
His hand at my back.
The kiss.
Come back.
“I’m just his nurse.”
Dominic laughed.
“No, Claire.”
Footsteps approached behind me.
“You haven’t been just his nurse since the moment he looked at you in red.”
The phone disconnected.
I took one step backward.
A cloth came over my mouth.
I fought.
Bit somebody’s hand.
Kicked.
Heard shouting.
Then a needle entered my arm.
The hallway tilted.
My knees gave out.
The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was the Crosswell sign above the nurses’ station.
A clinic Damian had built so nobody would ever be helpless.
And someone inside his own family had just turned it into a trap.