Chapter 1
A terrified eight-year-old boy ran through the pouring Chicago rain and threw himself into the arms of a complete stranger, begging, “Please, just pretend you’re hugging me.” Seconds later, two uniformed men came charging after him, but the moment they recognized the man protecting the child, both stopped cold. The boy had unknowingly chosen the most powerful Mafia boss in New York to save him.
One second, I was walking alone through downtown Chicago.
The next, a soaking-wet child slammed into me hard enough to knock me backward.
His arms locked around my waist.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just hug me.”
I looked down.
He couldn't have been older than eight. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, his jacket was too small, and one untied shoelace dragged through the rainwater.
Then I saw his eyes.
Pure terror.
“Ethan! Get back here!”
Two uniformed men came running around the corner.
The boy flinched and buried his face against my coat.
“Please don't give me back.”
Fifteen months earlier, I'd lost my wife and our unborn daughter, Lily, on a rain-slick highway.
Since then, I'd become very good at feeling nothing.
But something about that child's voice reached a part of me I thought had died with them.
So I wrapped one arm around him.
“There you are, son,” I called. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”
The men slowed.
“Sir, step away from the boy. He's under our supervision.”
“This boy is my son.”
The taller man took another step toward me.
Then he finally looked at my face.
His expression changed.
“Wait...”
His partner stared at me.
I watched the color drain from his face.
“Andrew Whitman.”
There it was.
Recognition.
My name traveled farther than I did.
In New York, men whispered it before entering certain rooms. Politicians knew it. Detectives knew it. And people involved in the wrong kind of business knew exactly why challenging me without permission was rarely a good idea.
I kept my voice quiet.
“Are you sure you want to take my son?”
Neither answered.
The shorter man swallowed.
“There may have been a misunderstanding.”
“There may have been.”
They backed away.
I watched until both disappeared around the corner.
Only then did the boy loosen his grip.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I crouched in front of him.
“You're safe for now. Why were they chasing you?”
His eyes immediately dropped.
“They were taking me back.”
“Back where?”
He hesitated.
“To the home.”
A strange feeling settled in my stomach.
“What home?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, Ethan suddenly grabbed my sleeve.
“Please don't let them take me back, Mr. Whitman.”
I froze.
The rain seemed to disappear.
I'd never told him my name.
“How do you know who I am?”
Ethan stared at me for several seconds.
Then he reached inside his soaked jacket.
“I was told to find you.”
He pulled out an old photograph, folded so many times the edges were beginning to tear.
My pulse slowed.
I took it from him.
Then I opened it.
And forgot how to breathe.
My wife was standing in the photograph.
The wife I'd buried fifteen months ago.
Beside her stood a much younger Ethan.
But that wasn't what made my hands begin to shake.
There was writing across the bottom.
Her handwriting.
I would have recognized it anywhere.
Six words.
Andrew, if anything happens, find him.
I looked up at Ethan.
May you like
Suddenly, the two men chasing him didn't matter nearly as much as the question tearing through my head.
What had my wife been hiding from me?
