Chapter 1
The first thing I did after meeting Chicago’s most feared paralyzed crime boss was insult him, refuse to clean up his whiskey, and rip the blanket off his legs. Everyone else had spent six months treating Desmond Gallagher like a broken man. He looked at me like I was the first person who had forgotten to be afraid of him.
My 1998 Honda Civic died three feet from the gates of his estate.
“Perfect.”
Two armed men watched me drag my oversized tote from the car.
“I’m here for the caregiver interview,” I called. “Unless you two are the caregivers, in which case I’m leaving.”
Neither smiled.
That should’ve warned me.
The Gallagher estate looked less like a home and more like a fortress disguised by expensive furniture.
Cameras followed me through marble hallways.
A man named Frankie confiscated my pepper spray before opening two enormous doors.
Desmond Gallagher was waiting inside.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair.
Icy blue eyes.
A motorized wheelchair.
And a thick wool blanket covering his legs despite the warm room.
He didn’t turn around.
“I requested the agency’s senior nurse.”
“You got me.”
His chair rotated.
His eyes moved over my coffee-stained scrubs and cheap shoes.
“You’re late.”
“My car died.”
“You’re inexperienced.”
“I’m licensed.”
“Barely.”
I crossed my arms.
“You’ve fired four nurses. You made one cry in your driveway. I need money and you pay triple, so here’s the deal. I handle your medication, catheter, vitals, and attitude. You sign my paycheck.”
Silence.
Desmond reached for a crystal tumbler.
His hand trembled.
The glass slipped.
It shattered.
Whiskey spread across the hardwood.
“Clean it up.”
I looked down.
Then back at him.
“No.”
His expression darkened.
Instead, I walked straight toward him and ripped away the blanket.
His hand locked around my wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Checking what everyone else is too scared to look at.”
Six months without walking had taken its toll.
His legs had lost muscle.
Worse, one calf showed the beginning of a pressure sore.
“You’re sitting under a blanket all day with terrible circulation while your skin breaks down.”
His grip tightened.
“If you squeeze any harder, I won’t be able to move your chair.”
He released me.
I expected him to call security.
Instead, Desmond stared at me for several long seconds.
“You’re hired.”
Two weeks later, I was sitting beside his bed at three in the morning when a violent spasm hit.
His leg jerked beneath the sheets.
Pain twisted across his face.
I climbed onto the mattress and pressed my weight against his thigh.
“Breathe, Desmond.”
It was the first time I’d used his first name.
“It won’t stop.”
“It will.”
His leg bucked hard enough to send my elbow into his ribs.
“Sorry.”
A broken laugh escaped him.
“You’re a terrible nurse.”
“I warned you.”
Slowly, the spasm eased.
I kept one hand against his shin.
No pity.
No fear.
Just making sure he was okay.
“You need more baclofen.”
“No. It makes me foggy.”
“You haven’t slept in three days.”
“I have a business to run.”
“You can’t run Chicago if your legs are doing the Macarena at three in the morning.”
His mouth twitched.
“One pill.”
I turned toward the medicine cabinet.
The bedroom door opened.
Frankie stood there.
His face was pale.
“Boss.”
Desmond changed instantly.
The wounded man disappeared.
Chicago’s crime boss was back.
“What?”
Frankie glanced at me.
Then at Desmond.
“They found him.”
The room went completely still.
Desmond’s voice dropped.
“Who?”
Frankie swallowed.
“The man who planted the bomb.”
Desmond didn’t move.
But the look in his eyes frightened me more than any gun I’d seen since entering that house.
Then Frankie said something else.
Something that made Desmond slowly turn toward me.
And suddenly I understood why Frankie had gone pale before entering the room.
May you like
Finding the bomber wasn’t the problem.
It was who the man had named.
