Chapter 1 - The Man Who Came Home Bleeding
At 3:17 in the morning, Hazel Brooks made the mistake of believing she was alone.
The Romano residence was never truly silent. Even at that hour, the old mansion seemed to breathe around her.
Rain whispered against the enormous windows. Wind pressed against the glass in restless waves. Somewhere beyond the third-floor study, an antique clock counted every second with a soft, patient tick.
Hazel stood beside the mahogany desk with a dust cloth in one hand and an empty coffee cup in the other.
Her feet hurt.
Her back hurt.
Her eyes burned so badly that the gold lettering on the books in front of her had begun to blur.
She had been awake for almost twenty-two hours.
Her first shift had begun at six that morning in a downtown café, where she had smiled at impatient commuters until two in the afternoon. She had gone home long enough to shower, change, and pretend she wasn't exhausted before reporting to the Romano residence for her night shift.
Two jobs.
Six days a week.
And it still wasn't enough.
Sixty thousand dollars.
That number followed Hazel everywhere.
It was there when she woke.
It was there when she tried to sleep.
It was there whenever an unfamiliar car slowed near her apartment building.
Sixty thousand dollars that she had never spent.
Sixty thousand dollars that Wyatt Mercer had borrowed before disappearing from Chicago and leaving Hazel's name attached to paperwork she had barely understood.
And now Frankie Sullivan wanted his money.
Hazel put the coffee cup on her cleaning cart.
“Three more hours,” she whispered.
Then she could go home.
Sleep for perhaps four hours.
Wake up.
Do it all again.
She reached for another book.
A sound came from the hallway.
Hazel froze.
Not footsteps.
Something heavier.
A dull impact against the wall.
She turned slowly.
The study doors were partly open.
“Hello?”
No answer.
Hazel swallowed.
The Romano residence employed security around the clock. Nobody was supposed to reach the third floor unnoticed.
Especially when Damian Romano was away.
Everyone knew Mr. Romano was in New York.
Hazel had heard two guards discussing it earlier that evening.
Business, they had said.
Nobody had explained what kind of business.
Nobody ever explained Damian Romano.
Hazel had worked in his house for four months and had spoken perhaps twenty words to him.
That was intentional.
She cleaned.
She kept her head down.
She disappeared whenever important people arrived.
It was safer that way.
Another sound.
Closer.
Hazel took one cautious step toward the doors.
A shadow crossed the hallway.
Then a man appeared.
Hazel's breath stopped.
Damian Romano stood in the doorway.
For one confused second, relief came first.
Then she saw the blood.
His white dress shirt was soaked dark red along his left side. Rainwater dripped from his black hair onto his forehead. His expensive jacket hung from one hand, and his other palm pressed tightly against his ribs.
Yet somehow he looked less like an injured man than a predator who had temporarily decided not to attack.
His gaze found Hazel immediately.
“Medical kit.”
She stared.
“Mr. Romano—”
“Hazel.”
Her heart jumped.
He knew her name.
“Medical kit,” he repeated.
She moved.
Fast.
Hazel abandoned the cleaning cart and hurried toward a cabinet behind the desk.
Her fingers shook as she opened it.
She had seen the first-aid kit before. Everyone who worked in the house knew where emergency supplies were kept.
She simply had never imagined she would be using them on Damian Romano.
She carried the kit to the leather sofa.
Damian had already sat down.
“Shouldn't I call an ambulance?”
“No.”
“But you're bleeding.”
“I noticed.”
Hazel looked at him.
For half a second, she thought she saw amusement in his eyes.
Then it disappeared.
“Sit,” he said.
“I am standing.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
Hazel looked down.
He was right.
“I've never done this before.”
“Neither has the bullet.”
Hazel's eyes widened.
“Bullet?”
“Graze.”
“That isn't comforting.”
This time she definitely saw it.
The smallest movement at one corner of his mouth.
Then pain tightened his expression.
Hazel immediately became serious.
“Let me see.”
Damian looked at her.
Hazel realized what she had just ordered the most intimidating man she had ever met to do.
“I mean—if I'm supposed to help you.”
Without speaking, Damian began unbuttoning his shirt.
Hazel looked away instinctively.
“Hazel.”
“Yes?”
“You'll have difficulty treating an injury you refuse to look at.”
Heat climbed into her face.
She forced herself to turn back.
Damian's shirt opened enough to reveal his chest and the dense black-and-gray tattoos that disappeared beneath the fabric. The wound was along his ribs.
There was a lot of blood.
Hazel inhaled sharply.
“It's worse than you said.”
“It looks worse.”
“How do you know?”
“Experience.”
That answer disturbed her more than the blood.
She knelt beside the sofa and opened the medical kit.
“I'm going to clean it.”
Damian nodded.
“This might hurt.”
“I'll try to survive.”
Hazel gave him an irritated glance before she could stop herself.
Damian's eyebrow lifted.
She immediately concentrated on the wound.
For the next several minutes, neither spoke.
Hazel cleaned away the blood carefully.
Damian barely reacted.
Only the slight tightening of his jaw told her when something hurt.
She found herself wondering what kind of man could sit so quietly while someone pressed gauze against an open wound.
Then she remembered whose house she was in.
She didn't want the answer.
“You need stitches.”
“No.”
“You probably do.”
“I don't.”
“Are you always this difficult?”
Silence.
Hazel closed her eyes.
Perfect.
Four months avoiding Damian Romano, and exhaustion had finally destroyed whatever survival instinct she possessed.
“Sorry.”
“Don't be.”
She glanced up.
He was studying her.
Not casually.
Closely.
Hazel suddenly became conscious of everything she hated about her uniform. The loose purple dress. The white apron. The sleeves she had deliberately ordered too large.
Loose clothing made her feel invisible.
Invisible was safe.
Especially around men.
Especially after Wyatt.
Damian's eyes moved to her face.
“You've worked here four months.”
Hazel blinked.
“Yes.”
“You work mornings somewhere else.”
Her hands stopped.
“How do you know that?”
“I notice who enters my house.”
Of course he did.
Hazel returned to the bandage.
“It's only temporary.”
“Four months is a long temporary.”
“I need the money.”
Damian said nothing.
Hazel taped the final edge of the bandage into place.
“There.”
She sat back.
“You should still see a doctor.”
“I will.”
“Tonight?”
“When necessary.”
“That means no.”
“It means when necessary.”
Hazel almost smiled.
Almost.
Then footsteps sounded outside.
Two men entered.
Hazel recognized Damian's security chief immediately.
Vincent Caruso was one of those men who seemed permanently alert. Even when drinking coffee, he looked as if he expected someone to attack the cup.
“Boss.”
Damian stood.
Hazel began gathering the bloodied gauze.
Vincent continued.
“We confirmed the vehicle.”
Damian's expression changed.
“Whose?”
“Sullivan.”
Hazel dropped the gauze.
Nobody else seemed to notice.
Except Damian.
His eyes shifted toward her.
Hazel immediately bent down.
Her fingers moved too quickly as she stuffed the gauze into the disposal bag.
Vincent was still speaking.
“Two of Frankie's people were seen near the east entrance. We don't know what they wanted.”
Hazel's breathing became shallow.
Frankie Sullivan.
Of all the names.
Of all the nights.
Why here?
Why Damian's house?
“Hazel.”
She looked up.
Damian was staring directly at her.
“Yes?”
“Why did you react to that name?”
“I didn't.”
His face became completely still.
“Do not lie to me.”
The room changed.
Hazel felt it.
So did Vincent.
The security chief stopped speaking.
Hazel's fingers tightened around the medical kit.
“I should finish downstairs.”
She stood.
Damian stepped between her and the door.
He didn't touch her.
He didn't need to.
“Who is Frankie Sullivan to you?”
“Nobody.”
“Wrong answer.”
Fear rose into Hazel's throat.
Not fear of Damian.
Not exactly.
It was the fear she had been carrying for months.
The fear of black cars outside her apartment.
Of unknown numbers calling after midnight.
Of footsteps behind her when she walked home.
She had hidden it so carefully.
Apparently not carefully enough.
“It's personal.”
“Sullivan doesn't have personal problems,” Damian said. “He has business.”
Hazel looked toward Vincent.
The other man quietly left the room and closed the doors.
That frightened her more.
Now she was alone with Damian.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I need to work.”
“You need to tell me why one of Sullivan's men makes you look like you're about to run through a wall.”
Hazel stared at the floor.
She could lie.
But Damian already knew.
Maybe not the details.
But enough.
And Hazel was so tired.
Tired of lying.
Tired of pretending.
Tired of waking every morning wondering whether Frankie Sullivan had finally decided she had run out of time.
“My ex-boyfriend borrowed money.”
Damian said nothing.
“His name was Wyatt Mercer.”
Still nothing.
Hazel rubbed her palms against her apron.
“He had some business idea. Investments. I don't know. He always had plans. He convinced people that everything was about to change.”
“How much?”
Hazel hesitated.
“Sixty thousand.”
Damian's eyes narrowed slightly.
“From Sullivan?”
She nodded.
“And where is Wyatt?”
“I don't know.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Five months.”
Damian stared at her.
Hazel knew exactly what he was thinking.
“You signed something.”
Her throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Documents Wyatt said were for the business.”
“Did you read them?”
“Not properly.”
The shame in her voice surprised even her.
Damian's expression did not soften.
But neither did he mock her.
“He said we were building a future,” Hazel whispered. “I trusted him.”
“And Sullivan says the debt transferred to you.”
“Yes.”
“Legally?”
“I don't know.”
“Have you spoken to an attorney?”
“With what money?”
The words came out sharper than Hazel intended.
She looked away.
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
Hazel almost laughed.
“You don't know me very well.”
“I know you apologize when other people should.”
That silenced her.
Damian walked toward the window.
Lightning briefly illuminated the skyline beyond him.
“When did Sullivan contact you?”
“About four months ago.”
“How?”
“Phone calls at first.”
“And then?”
Hazel hesitated.
Damian turned.
She didn't answer.
His eyes hardened.
“And then?”
“One of his men waited outside my apartment.”
Damian's jaw tightened.
“He knew where I worked. Both jobs.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
It was technically true.
Frankie's man hadn't touched her.
He had simply leaned against her car and described exactly which bus she took home every Tuesday.
Sometimes threats didn't require hands.
“What did he say?”
“That Friday was my deadline.”
Damian glanced toward the clock.
It was Thursday morning.
“Tomorrow?”
Hazel nodded.
“What happens Friday?”
“I don't know.”
“You do.”
Hazel stared at him.
She hated that he could see through every answer.
“He said someone would come.”
The words sounded worse when spoken aloud.
Damian became very still.
“You should have told someone.”
“Who?”
“The police.”
Hazel laughed.
Once.
It wasn't funny.
“Frankie already taught me what happens when I try that.”
Something cold appeared in Damian's eyes.
Not directed at her.
“Then me.”
Hazel stared at him.
“What?”
“You should have told me.”
She genuinely couldn't understand.
“You barely know I exist.”
A long silence followed.
Rain hammered the windows.
Damian's gaze remained fixed on hers.
“I know now.”
Hazel should have been terrified by the quiet certainty in his voice.
Instead, something unfamiliar happened.
For the first time in months, the knot inside her chest loosened.
Only slightly.
But enough.
She sat at the far end of the leather sofa.
Damian remained near the window.
“Why would you help me?”
He looked toward her.
“I haven't said I would.”
Hazel's brief sense of safety vanished.
Then he added:
“I said you should have told me.”
She frowned.
There was something about the distinction that felt important.
Damian walked back to the sofa and sat at the opposite end.
Five feet separated them.
Hazel folded her hands in her lap.
The clock ticked.
The storm continued.
Neither spoke.
Minutes passed.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
She fought them.
Failed.
Opened them again.
Damian was looking at his phone.
Another minute.
Hazel's head dipped.
She straightened.
“You should sleep,” Damian said.
“I have work.”
“You can barely sit upright.”
“My shift isn't over.”
“It is now.”
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“Sleep, Hazel.”
She wanted to argue.
Instead, she leaned into the corner of the sofa.
Five feet still separated them.
At least, that was what Hazel remembered.
Five feet.
Then four.
Then somewhere between exhaustion and the steady sound of rain, distance stopped mattering.
When Hazel finally surrendered to sleep, she never felt herself move.
She never felt her cheek settle against Damian Romano's chest.
Never felt her hand curl into the black fabric of his shirt.
Never knew that the most feared man in Chicago looked down at her and went completely motionless.
Damian Romano had spent years making sure nobody came close enough to hurt him.
Yet he did not move her.
Instead, after a long hesitation, his tattooed arm slowly settled around Hazel's shoulders.
And outside the study, Vincent Caruso stared at the message glowing on his phone.
His expression changed.
Because Sullivan's men had not come to the Romano estate looking for Damian.
May you like
They had come looking for the sleeping woman in his arms.
And what Vincent had just discovered about Wyatt Mercer meant sixty thousand dollars was the least of Hazel Brooks's problems.
