Chapter 7 - WHEN THE KING FELL
Z
Ethan collapsed before sunrise.
Not dramatically.
That would have been easier.
He simply walked into the kitchen after speaking with federal agents, reached for a glass of water, and hit the floor.
“Ethan!”
The glass shattered.
I ran.
Blood soaked through the side of his shirt.
He had been shot.
The bastard had hidden it for almost four hours.
“You said you weren’t hit!”
“I wasn’t.”
“You are literally bleeding!”
“I noticed.”
Then his eyes closed.
I screamed for Declan.
The next twenty minutes disappeared into chaos.
Cars.
Sirens.
Hospital corridors.
People moving aside the moment they recognized Ethan.
Doctors rushing.
Security appearing from nowhere.
I sat in the waiting room with blood on my hands.
His blood.
Margaret arrived holding Sophie.
Elena came behind her.
I stood.
“What are you doing here?”
Margaret handed Sophie to me.
“Reminding you that breathing is still required.”
I pressed my face against my daughter’s hair.
Three hours later, a doctor walked out.
“He’s stable.”
My knees weakened.
“The bullet missed major organs. He lost significant blood, but he should recover.”
I cried.
Quietly.
Angrily.
Because apparently Ethan Callahan had found one more way to make my life complicated.
When I finally entered his room, he was awake.
Barely.
“You look terrible,” I said.
His eyes opened.
“Good morning to you too.”
I sat beside him.
“You lied.”
“About?”
“The bullet.”
“It seemed inconvenient.”
“Inconvenient?”
His mouth almost smiled.
I wanted to slap him.
Instead, I started crying again.
That erased the smile immediately.
“Rachel.”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act invincible.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
I wiped my face.
“You walk into churches and warehouses and piers like nobody gets to be afraid for you.”
His expression changed.
“Most people aren’t.”
“Well, I am.”
Silence.
There it was.
The thing I had been refusing to say.
I cared.
Not because he was powerful.
Not because men feared him.
Because he carried a screaming stranger’s baby through a dark airplane while her mother slept.
Because he remembered bottles.
Because he obeyed Margaret when she told him to eat.
Because behind the terrible reputation was a man who had lost almost everyone he loved and somehow still noticed when a tired woman’s hands were shaking.
“I’m supposed to go back to Los Angeles,” I whispered.
“When?”
“Three days.”
He looked toward the window.
“I’ll arrange transportation.”
That hurt more than it should have.
“Right.”
“A car will take you to the airport.”
“Of course.”
“And the jet can fly you home.”
“I don’t need your jet.”
“I know.”
He looked at me again.
“That’s why I offered.”
I stood.
Maybe I had imagined everything.
The kiss.
The look.
The way he held me.
Maybe men like Ethan could separate moments from promises.
I couldn’t.
“I should let you rest.”
“Rachel.”
I stopped.
He sat up slightly, winced, and ignored it.
“I don’t want you to go.”
I turned.
His face was pale.
His voice was not.
“I want you in Chicago.”
My heart pounded.
“You barely know me.”
“I know you argue when you’re frightened.”
“That’s insulting.”
“You organize Sophie’s diaper bag by color.”
“Practical.”
“You hate cinnamon in coffee.”
“It ruins coffee.”
“You call your sister every night now, even when she’s in the next room.”
I swallowed.
“You sing Motown songs to Sophie when you think nobody is listening.”
My face warmed.
“You heard that?”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to be unconscious.”
“I was shot, not dead.”
I folded my arms.
“What exactly are you saying?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“I don’t know.”
That surprised me more than any confident declaration could have.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life knowing exactly what happens next,” he said. “Where people stand. What they want. What they’re willing to betray.”
His eyes moved toward Sophie asleep in the bassinet beside me.
“Then you sat beside me on an airplane.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Technically, you sat beside me.”
“Details.”
“You hated my baby.”
“I did not.”
“You looked terrified when she cried.”
“I was terrified.”
“King of Chicago defeated by an infant.”
“She was loud.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
His face softened.
Then he became serious.
“I’m not asking you to stay because I can protect you.”
“Good.”
“I’m not asking you to stay because you owe me.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
He reached for my hand.
“I’m asking because when you walk out of a room, I notice.”
My breath caught.
“That sounds dangerously close to romance, Mr. Callahan.”
“I’ve been told I’m dangerous.”
“That line probably works on women who sleep more.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
“I’m not asking for forever.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking for dinner.”
I smiled.
“When?”
“When I can stand without nurses threatening me.”
“That could be weeks.”
“They’re very aggressive here.”
I looked at him.
At the man Chicago called a king.
And realized nobody had ever impressed me less with power or more with kindness.
“Fine.”
“One dinner?”
“One.”
“Without body armor?”
“Depends on the restaurant.”
His eyes warmed.
Three days later, I postponed my flight.
One week later, federal indictments landed across Chicago.
Patrick Callahan was charged with conspiracy, racketeering, bribery, and multiple murders connected to a network stretching back almost two decades.
Roman Marconi disappeared before authorities reached his house.
Adrian survived his gunshot wound.
Elena visited him once in the hospital.
Only once.
She returned without her engagement ring.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“That I loved the man he pretended to be.”
She looked at her bare hand.
“But I wasn’t going to marry the man he chose to become.”
For the first time in years, I understood my sister completely.
Three weeks after the pier, Ethan came downstairs without bandages.
Margaret applauded.
Declan looked offended by the display.
Sophie bounced in my arms.
Ethan walked directly toward us.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“You survived.”
“Apparently.”
I handed Sophie to him.
He took her naturally.
She immediately grabbed his tie.
Ethan sighed.
“This is Italian silk.”
Sophie shoved the end toward her mouth.
I laughed.
“Looks like she owns it now.”
He looked at the baby.
Then at me.
And something inside my chest settled into place.
Not safety.
Not certainty.
May you like
Something better.
Choice.
