Take off your apron. You're fired!" My manager humiliated me in front of an entire Chicago restaurant because I spent $12.40 of my own money buying lunch for an elderly woman.

I stood in the silent library on the fourth floor, the early morning wind howling through the plywood boards that had been temporarily nailed over the shattered terrace doors.

The painting Marcone had mentioned was a massive oil canvas depicting the Chicago Fire. I swung it aside on its brass hinges, revealing a heavy biometric and digital wall safe.

I had the flash drive in my hand within forty seconds.

Not because I was a criminal mastermind, but because Adrian Voss had never kept it a secret from me. The combination was the date his parents had died, and the emergency override key was hidden inside the hollowed-out base of the antique chess set on his desk—a fact Clara had casually mentioned while giving me a tour of the house yesterday afternoon.

I gripped the heavy titanium drive, its cold metal biting into my palm.

"Going somewhere, Sophie?"

I gasped, spinning around.

Adrian stood in the doorway of the library.

He was wearing a black silk robe tied loosely at his waist, his bare chest wrapped in fresh bandages. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face pale and beaded with cold sweat, but his dark eyes burned with an intensity that pinned me to the spot.

In his right hand, held loosely at his side, was his Glock.

Behind him stood Arthur, his weapon holstered, his face an unreadable mask of stone.

My breath hitched. "Adrian... you shouldn't be out of bed. You're bleeding through your bandages."

"I asked you a question," Adrian said, his voice flat, dangerously cold. "What are you doing with that drive?"

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't flinch. I didn't hide the drive behind my back. Instead, I walked straight toward him, stopping three feet away, and held the titanium drive out in the palm of my hand.

"Julian Marcone called your private line an hour ago," I said, my voice shaking with raw emotion. "He has men stationed at Aunt Marie’s clinic. He threatened to poison the estate's water supply and murder my mother if I didn't deliver this drive to Pier 42 by sunrise."

Adrian didn't look at the drive. He kept his eyes locked squarely on my face. "And you were going to steal it from me?"

"No," I cried, hot tears spilling over my cheeks. "I was going to use it to kill him."

Arthur blinked in surprise. Adrian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

"Explain," Adrian commanded softly.

"I know what kind of man Marcone is," I said, wiping a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. "If I give him this drive, he kills Aunt Marie anyway. He kills my mother anyway. And then he kills you while you're too weak to fight back. Bullies don't keep promises, Adrian. They only take until you break their teeth."

Adrian stared at me for three long, agonizing seconds. The lethal tension in the room seemed to stretch until it was ready to snap.

Then, slowly, Adrian lowered his weapon.

A ghost of a smile—dark, proud, and breathtakingly wicked—curled the corners of his lips.

"Arthur," Adrian said without looking away from me.

"Yes, boss?"

"Send team four to the medical clinic. Extract Miss Carter's aunt and neutralize Marcone's spotters. Execute quietly."

"On it," Arthur replied, already pulling out his radio as he turned and jogged down the hall.

Adrian took a slow, painful step toward me, reaching out to cup the back of my neck, pulling my forehead gently against his collarbone. I let out a ragged sob, letting his warmth anchor me against the terror of the morning.

"You came to me," Adrian murmured into my hair, his voice vibrating with a deep, reverent tenderness. "You had the drive. You had the car keys. You could have run, and you chose to stand with me."

"I told you," I mumbled against his chest, careful not to press against his bandages. "I don't leave people behind."

Adrian tilted my chin up, his dark eyes ablaze with a terrifying, beautiful resolve.

"Then let's go finish this," Adrian said. "Marcone wants a trade? We will give him one he will never forget."

Twenty minutes later, the plan was forged.

The drive I held was swapped for an identical decoy loaded with a military-grade Trojan virus designed to instantly fry whatever network it was plugged into, while simultaneously broadcasting its GPS coordinates directly to the Department of Justice's organized crime division.

"You wear a wire beneath your coat," Adrian instructed, securing a tiny, flesh-colored microphone behind my ear. "Arthur and six tactical units will be stationed inside the shipping containers surrounding Pier 42. I will be on the catwalk above."

"You're in no condition to climb catwalks, Adrian!" I protested, looking at the dark circle of blood beginning to seep through his fresh dressing.

"I would crawl through broken glass before I let you walk into that warehouse unprotected," he answered fiercely, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "You walk in. You confirm your aunt's safety. You drop the drive. The moment you are clear, I end this."

He leaned down and pressed a fierce, lingering kiss against my forehead.