The heavy scent of spilt milk and crushed strawberries lingered in aisle four of the Chicago supermarket, but the air felt hollowed out, stripped of oxygen by the shock that still vibrated through the floorboards.

The black SUV swallowed the chill of the Chicago night as it pulled away from the supermarket curb, leaving the flashing police cruisers and a groaning Travis behind in the parking lot.

Inside the leather-lined cabin, the silence was suffocating. Josie had finally cried herself to sleep against Camille’s shoulder, her soft breathing the only sound besides the low hum of the engine. Willa sat next to her mother, wide-awake, her small fingers clutching the edge of her seat, staring out the window at the glittering skyline of downtown Chicago.

Adrian sat across from them in the spacious back interior, his expression unreadable. He hadn't spoken a word since they left the parking lot. The man who had taken down Travis with a single, brutal movement was now sitting completely still, resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, watching Camille with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

"Where are you taking us?" Camille finally asked, breaking the silence. Her voice was flat, devoid of fear now, replaced entirely by exhaustion. "If you think you can use us as leverage against Travis, or whatever war you're fighting—"

"Leverage?" Adrian interrupted softly, a dark spark flashing in his eyes. "Against a low-level shipping clerk who beats his wife in the middle of a cereal aisle? Do you honestly believe I need leverage, Camille?"

"Then why are we here?" Camille demanded, tightening her grip on Josie. "Why did you step in? People like you don't just rescue waitresses out of the goodness of your hearts. There's a price. So name it. Is it information? Do you think Travis knows something about your business?"

Adrian let out a slow, heavy breath. He reached into his inner suit jacket and pulled out a worn, slightly crumpled photograph, holding it out between two fingers.

Camille froze.

The photo showed a younger version of herself—hair longer, smiling brightly—standing on the steps of St. Jude’s Hospital, holding a tiny, swaddled newborn. Standing right beside her, with his arm wrapped securely around her waist, was a man with dark hair, a sharp jawline, and a small, familiar scar on his collar.

Adrian Moretti.

"Six years ago," Adrian whispered, his voice cracking slightly—just enough to betray the iron wall he had built around himself, "you walked out of Mercy Hospital with a birth certificate that listed a dead man as your husband, and a ghost as your protector. You changed your hair, your name, your city, and every digital footprint you ever touched."

Camille felt the blood drain entirely from her face. The air in the car turned to ice. "I... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you, Camille?" Adrian leaned forward, the dim amber dashboard lights catching the hard angles of his face. "You thought you could hide from the Moretti name by burying yourself in a two-bedroom apartment. But you forgot one thing." He pointed gently toward Willa. "She has my eyes. And she has my mother's laugh."