The sun had barely begun to carve its pale, gray light through the smog of the inner-city districts when I stepped out of the heavy iron gates of the Hayes estate.

The sun had barely begun to carve its pale, gray light through the smog of the inner-city districts when I stepped out of the heavy iron gates of the Hayes estate. My boots clicked against the damp pavement, each step sending a dull, throbbing pain shooting up through my calves and into my lower back. Eighteen hours of standing, scrubbing, and dodging the watchful eyes of Paul Marino had left me completely hollowed out.

Yet, as I pulled my threadbare wool coat tighter around my shoulders, my mind was racing in a way it hadn't in months.

“You didn't see me wounded... And you definitely did not sleep on my chest.”

The memory of Victor Hayes’s voice—deep, gravelly, and carrying that impossible hint of a smile—sent a strange, unsettling flutter through my stomach. It was dangerous to think about him like that. He was a monster to half the city, a ruthless syndicate boss who dealt in blood, real estate, and ruined lives. But to me, in that quiet, fire-lit study, he had felt simply like a man in agony. A man who needed anchor in a storm.

A dark sedan idled by the curb across the street. The tinted windows rolled down slowly, revealing the sharp, unsmiling face of Paul Marino.

“Get in, Emily,” Paul called out, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.

My heart skipped a beat. “I can walk to the bus stop, Mr. Marino. It’s only—"

“The boss said you’re not taking public transit anymore. Get in the car.”

There was no room for argument. I hurried across the damp asphalt and pulled open the rear door, sliding onto the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of expensive cologne and gun oil—a potent reminder of the world I had accidentally stumbled into.

As the car pulled away from the curb, I stared out the window, watching the dilapidated brick tenements of my neighborhood blur past. But my thoughts weren't on the cracked sidewalks or the peeling paint of the apartment building where my brother Liam was likely still sleeping off his latest hangover. My thoughts were on the threat Victor had made before I left the study.

Somebody tried to kill me. And his injury had never been the real danger.

The words echoed in my mind like a warning bell. If someone inside the Hayes estate had managed to slip past Victor’s security and sink a blade into his shoulder, what stopped them from turning their attention toward the quiet, exhausted maid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?

When the sedan dropped me off two blocks from my building, I hurried up the concrete stairs of my apartment complex, my keys rattling in my stiff fingers. I pushed open the door to our cramped, perpetually drafty living room.

Liam was sitting at the tiny laminate kitchen table, nursing a cup of instant coffee. Dark circles ringed his bloodshot eyes, and his shoulders were hunched in habitual defeat.

“Em,” Liam muttered, looking up as I stepped inside. “Where were you all night? You didn't come home.”

“I told you, Liam, I had extra hours at the estate,” I said, stripping off my coat and tossing it over the back of the sofa. My bones felt like glass.

“Yeah, well, Mrs. Daley called here around midnight looking for you,” Liam said, his voice dropping defensively. “She said you left without finishing the West Wing corridors. Some nonsense about an accident in the study.”

I froze, my hand hovering over my bag. “An accident?”

“Yeah. Some broken crystal or something. She was mad as hell.” Liam stood up, running a hand through his unwashed hair. “Listen, Em... about the debt. Did you talk to him? Did you talk to Victor?”

I turned slowly to face my brother. The anger that had been simmering beneath my exhaustion for three months finally began to bubble over.

“Talk to him, Liam? Do you have any idea what kind of man he is?” My voice shook, rising in pitch. “He was bleeding to death on his own sofa last night! Someone tried to assassinate him in his own home! And you’re standing here asking me if I negotiated your gambling tab like I was haggling at a farmer's market?”

Liam stepped back, his eyes widening in genuine shock. “Assassinated? Victor Hayes? Are you out of your mind?”

“I saw the knife wound, Liam! I pulled the glass out of the rug while he was bleeding through his shirt!” I slammed my bag onto the kitchen table, the force of it rattling the cheap ceramic mugs. “And the only reason you aren't currently feeding fish at the bottom of the harbor is because I happened to be standing in the right hallway at the wrong time.”