Chapter 1 - I Thought I Was Saving a Wounded Stranger—Until Chicago’s Most Feared Mafia King Whispered My NameThat night, I finished my shift at the hospital close to midnight.
I remember the exact time because the clock above the emergency department doors read 11:47 p.m.
My feet hurt.
My shoulders ached.
My stomach was empty.
And my phone was still silent.
Ryan had ignored six calls.
Six.
I stood beneath the harsh fluorescent lights outside the hospital entrance, staring at his name on my screen.
RYAN CALLAHAN
My fiancé.
The man I was supposed to marry in three months.
The man who had once promised he would never let me walk home alone at night.
I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
I swallowed my disappointment and locked my phone.
Maybe he was asleep.
Maybe his battery was dead.
Maybe I was simply overthinking everything.
That was what I had become good at lately.
Finding excuses for someone else's behavior.
I pulled my coat tighter around myself and stepped into the freezing Chicago night.
A cold wind swept through the parking lot.
I shivered.
My car was in the repair shop again, which meant I had no choice but to walk toward the train station.
Ryan had promised he would pick me up.
He had promised three days ago.
Then yesterday.
Then again that morning.
But promises had become increasingly cheap between us.
I started walking.
Five minutes later, my phone vibrated.
I nearly smiled.
Then I saw the message.
Don't wait up. Out with friends.
That was it.
No explanation.
No apology.
No Are you safe?
Nothing.
I stared at the screen until it blurred.
Then I typed:
I'm walking home. It's freezing.
I waited.
Nothing.
I typed again.
Can you at least call me?
Nothing.
I put the phone away.
A year ago, that would have hurt enough to make me cry.
Now it simply made me tired.
Ryan hadn't always been like this.
That was the cruelest part.
During nursing school, he used to bring coffee when I studied until two in the morning.
He remembered every exam date.
He waited outside the library with takeout when I forgot to eat.
He once walked three blocks through a thunderstorm because I had forgotten my umbrella.
He had looked at me and said, Emily, you're going to be my wife.
I believed him.
I still wanted to believe him.
But somewhere along the way, the man I loved had become someone who barely noticed whether I was there.
I took the shortcut behind Monroe Street.
It wasn't the safest route.
I knew that.
But it would save me fifteen minutes.
I had taken it dozens of times.
Halfway through the alley, I heard voices.
Two men.
Arguing.
I slowed.
One voice was calm.
Almost unnervingly calm.
“Victor is making a mistake.”
The second man laughed.
“He said the same thing about you.”
I stopped.
My instincts screamed at me to turn around.
Then came the gunshot.
I dropped behind a dumpster.
The sound echoed between the buildings.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Footsteps thundered toward the opposite end of the alley.
Then silence.
I stayed frozen for several seconds.
My training told me to call emergency services.
My instincts told me to run.
Then I heard it.
A ragged breath.
Someone was still there.
I looked toward the wall.
A man was leaning against the bricks.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dressed in an expensive black coat.
One hand pressed tightly against his shoulder.
Blood covered his fingers.
A lot of blood.
I ran toward him.
“Don't move.”
His head lifted.
His eyes found mine.
Cold.
Dark.
Focused.
Even wounded, he didn't look frightened.
He looked angry.
“You should leave.”
“I'm a nurse.”
“That makes this either my lucky night…”
He winced.
“…or your worst one.”
I dropped beside him.
“Save your strength.”
I pulled off my scarf.
“Move your hand.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You need to leave.”
“You're bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
“Then stop arguing.”
For the first time, surprise flickered across his face.
I pressed the scarf against his wound.
He sucked in a breath.
“Sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
I looked at him.
He almost smiled.
“No,” he admitted.
I pulled out my phone and called 911.
As I spoke, he watched me.
His gaze was unsettling.
Not because it was threatening.
Because it was studying me.
“What?” I asked.
“You're not afraid.”
“I am.”
“You don't look it.”
“I'm a nurse.”
“That doesn't explain it.”
“It explains everything.”
The dispatcher asked for my location.
I gave it.
Then I looked at the man's wound.
The bullet appeared to have entered high in the shoulder.
Blood loss was significant.
“You're going to be okay.”
He stared at me.
“You don't know that.”
“I know enough.”
“You shouldn't make promises to strangers.”
“Then don't make me regret helping you.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What is your name?”
“Emily.”
“Emily what?”
I frowned.
“Why?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the entrance of the alley.
His expression changed.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“You need to hide.”
“What?”
He grabbed my wrist.
His strength shocked me.
“Now.”
I turned.
A black SUV had stopped beneath the streetlight.
Two men stepped out.
Neither looked like paramedics.
One wore a long black coat.
The other had his hand inside his jacket.
My stomach dropped.
“Who are they?”
Adrian's grip tightened.
“Not friends.”
“Police?”
“No.”
The two men began walking toward us.
I looked at Adrian.
“Are they the men who shot you?”
“No.”
“Then who are they?”
He stared at me.
His voice became very quiet.
“They're here because of you.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He looked directly into my eyes.
“Because they already know who you are.”
The men continued approaching.
Then one of them called out.
“Mr. Duca.”
My blood went cold.
Adrian.
Duca.
The name suddenly felt familiar.
I'd heard it on the news.
A businessman.
A hotel owner.
A nightclub investor.
A man connected to half a dozen investigations that never seemed to reach court.
A man whose name people whispered in Chicago.
Adrian Duca.
The most feared mafia king in the city.
I stared at him.
He saw the realization in my face.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“You've heard of me.”
I couldn't speak.
His eyes softened for the first time.
“I'm sorry.”
Then the first man raised his gun.
Adrian pushed me behind him.
The alley exploded into chaos.
Two gunshots.
Then three.
Adrian staggered.
I screamed.
But his men were already moving.
Three black SUVs appeared from the opposite street.
Doors flew open.
Armed men poured out.
The attackers disappeared into the darkness.
I stood frozen.
Adrian turned toward me.
“Are you hurt?”
“You were shot!”
“Not the question.”
I looked down.
My hands were shaking.
“I'm fine.”
He nodded.
Then his knees buckled.
I caught him.
His full weight crashed against me.
“Adrian!”
His head dropped against my shoulder.
His breathing became shallow.
I held him upright.
“Stay with me.”
His eyes opened.
“Emily.”
“I'm here.”
“You shouldn't have saved me.”
“Too late.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“You have no idea what you've just done.”
Then he passed out in my arms.
And somewhere across Chicago, before I even knew it, an empire began to move.
Because Adrian Duca had been attacked.
His enemies had failed to kill him.
But they had discovered something far more dangerous.
May you like
The one person Adrian Duca would eventually be willing to die for.
Me.
Related Stories
