Grease was the first thing I remember about that night. Not rain. Not headlights. Not the old man’s trembling hands wrapped around a black leather loafer

The leather inside the black SUV smelled of expensive cedar, fresh leather, and smoke.

It was a stark, almost absurd contrast to the sour grease and cheap bleach that hung on my clothes. I sat in the middle of the plush back seat, squeezed between the confused old man and his terrifying son. Two giant men in dark suits sat up front, their ears wired with tiny earpieces, eyes scanning the rearview mirrors as if expecting an attack at any second.

"I have bus money," I said, my voice shaking as I squeezed my damp canvas bag against my lap. "You don't need to kidnap me. I was just helping him off the road."

Julian didn't even look at me. He was inspecting his father's bare foot, his dark brows furrowed in a mixture of intense authority and surprising tenderness. He pulled a dry cashmere blanket from a compartment and draped it gently over the old man's shoulders.

"His name is Arthur Rossi," Julian said, his voice smooth, low, and heavy. "My name is Julian. And no one is kidnapping you, Miss...?"

"Wells. Chloe Wells," I stammered. "Look, Mr. Rossi, I'm just a waitress. I work at the diner down on 4th. I missed my bus, but I can walk—"

"You saved my father's life," Julian interrupted, finally turning his head to look directly at me.

His eyes were a piercing, stormy gray, framed by sharp facial features and a jawline that looked carved from granite. There was a dangerous intensity in him—the kind of presence that made the air feel thin.

"Arthur has advanced dementia," Julian continued quietly. "He wanders when the storms trigger his memory of my mother. He slipped past six armed guards tonight. If you hadn't pulled him out of that intersection, he would be under the wheels of that truck."

Arthur reached out with his trembling, wrinkled hand and patted my wet knee. "She's a sweet girl, Julian. Reminds me of Martha. Smells like coffee."

"It's hamburger fat, actually," I mumbled under my breath before I could stop myself.

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of Julian's hard mouth. "You're bleeding, Miss Wells."

I looked down at my hand. When I had yanked Arthur onto the curb, my palm had scraped hard against the rough concrete. Blood was oozing across my knuckles, mixing with rain.

Without asking, Julian pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm, warm, and sent a strange, electric jolt clear up my arm. He pressed the cloth gently against my scrape.

"Where do you live?" Julian asked the driver without taking his eyes off my face.

"South Side. 12th Street," I managed to say, hyper-aware of how close he was.

The driver tapped a screen on the dashboard. "Traffic is backed up due to the storm, Don Julian. The main bridge is closed for emergency repairs."

Don Julian.

The word hit me like a slap. In Chicago, people didn't use that title unless they were talking about one family. The Rossi family. They owned half the docks, three major construction firms, and every illegal gambling den from here to Milwaukee.

Panic surged in my chest. I had just grabbed the father of the most dangerous crime boss in the city by the sleeve.

"Sir," the driver spoke up again, looking nervous. "The perimeter team reports two unidentified sedans tailing us from the avenue. They aren't ours."