Chapter 1 - The Bullet That Changed Everything|
“Half an inch higher,” Declan said.
Sophia Bennett remained on her knees beside the fitting platform, studying the trouser hem between her fingers. Behind her, the steam iron released a tired hiss. Sleet tapped against the back window of her little tailor shop in Chicago, and the clock above the cutting table had just passed nine.
“No.”
Declan Moretti looked down at her.
“No?”
“You'll look as though you're expecting a flood.”
“I expect many things.”
“Then expect me to leave the hem where it belongs.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth shifted.
Not quite a smile.
After two years of making his suits, Sophia had learned to recognize the difference between Declan's amusement and the cold expression that made grown men reconsider their decisions.
At thirty-four, Declan was one of Chicago's most powerful men. His name appeared in business magazines beside photographs of luxury hotels, shipping companies, and charitable foundations. It also traveled through the city's darker corners in whispers.
Sophia didn't ask questions about the darker corners.
She charged him for the fabric, refused to accept tips large enough to make her uncomfortable, and told him when his jackets looked ridiculous.
Apparently, that made her unusual.
She inserted another pin and stood carefully, pressing one hand against her lower back.
“Arms up.”
He obeyed.
She measured across his shoulders, then paused beneath his left arm.
“Different holster.”
“You noticed.”
“It's ruining the jacket.”
“It serves a purpose.”
“So does the jacket. Mine has fewer unpleasant consequences.”
His eyes rested on her face.
Tonight, exhaustion lay beneath his usual winter-gray stillness. He had arrived late, dismissed three calls, and asked twice whether anyone had entered the shop after nine.
Sophia lowered the measuring tape.
“Bad evening?”
“Long one.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I know.”
“You could simply say you don't want to answer.”
He turned toward her.
“I don't want to answer.”
“See? We're both making progress.”
Ten minutes later, he insisted on walking her toward the station.
Sophia agreed because the sidewalks were icy and because, despite everything she knew about him, she liked those quiet three blocks when he was merely a man carrying her bag.
At the shop door, he waited while she locked up.
“Thursday,” he said.
“The suit is promised for Friday.”
“I need it Thursday.”
“Then you should have developed urgent requirements earlier.”
He took the heavier bag from her before she could object.
“I have a meeting.”
“You always have a meeting.”
“This one matters.”
Sophia raised her collar against the wind.
“Then try not to frighten the seams.”
They walked with the buildings to their right and the street to Declan's left. His black SUV followed at a discreet distance, driven by his security chief, Marcus Reed.
Sophia knew what that meant.
She preferred not to examine how accustomed she had become to it.
At the corner, light swept across them.
Too bright.
Too fast.
A dark sedan came around the turn, its tires sliding before finding purchase. The passenger window was already open.
Declan's expression changed.
“Sophia, down!”
She didn't understand why he shouted until she saw the flash.
A gunshot cracked through the street.
Declan moved toward her, but his hand caught only the edge of her coat. Sophia's boot slipped on the wet pavement. She reached for him instinctively, trying to pull him away from the line of fire.
Something struck beneath her right shoulder with enough force to erase the air from her lungs.
For one impossible second, she felt no pain.
Then she was falling.
Her palms scraped the pavement. Rain touched her face. The streetlights blurred into long white streaks.
Declan's voice came from somewhere above her, no longer low or measured.
“Sophia!”
He dropped beside her.
Blood spread beneath her coat.
His hands hovered over the wound, terrified of hurting her, terrified of doing nothing.
“Marcus! Call an ambulance! Now!”
Sophia tried to answer, but her breath caught.
“Stay with me.” Declan pressed his coat against her shoulder. “Look at me, sweetheart. Stay with me.”
She had never heard him use that word.
She wanted to tell him she had slipped. That it had not been a decision. That the suit still needed its left sleeve finished.
Instead, she whispered, “Cold.”
He took her hand.
“I've got you.”
The sedan vanished around the corner. Marcus ran toward it, shouting into his phone, while Declan remained on the pavement with Sophia's hand locked in his.
“Help is coming,” he said, though his voice was breaking. “You're going to be all right.”
Sophia tried to focus on his face.
“Don't... ruin the suit.”
A terrible, disbelieving sound escaped him.
Then her eyes closed.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Declan Moretti had blood on his hands and a fear in his chest that no weapon, fortune, or army of loyal men could make disappear.
May you like
And when the paramedics lifted Sophia onto the stretcher, he climbed into the ambulance beside her without asking permission.
He never released her hand.
