The mob boss bought a weak dog for $1 — not knowing it would change his life forever.

Chapter 11

There was a small moment both of us pretended didn’t happen.

One night outside the clinic. I waited for her shift to end so I could drive her back to June’s house—because the neighborhood wasn’t safe at night. A reasonable reason. A lie.

She came out. I stood beside the car. He sat in the back seat, looking out the window. The December Chicago wind cut through the thin layer of my suit. One side of my collar was turned up.

Ren approached and, without thinking, reached out and fixed it.

Her fingers touched the fabric, then the skin of my neck. Quick. Light. One second.

Then she pulled her hand back, lowered her eyes, and walked quickly toward the car.

I stood still. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched me without the intention of shaking my hand or fighting me.

We didn’t say anything about that moment. But both of us knew it had happened.

Across Chicago, inside a warehouse in the east side that Bogdan Petrescu used as headquarters, another meeting was happening.

Bogdan already knew I was investigating Ridmont. His line inside the administrative system had reported that someone was pulling old patient files, staff records, and financial documents from the institution.

Bogdan didn’t need to guess who was searching. Only one man had a reason.

And Bogdan knew exactly why it was dangerous—because twenty-six years earlier, he himself had been Cash Draven’s partner in the interstate money-laundering operation Margaret had discovered.

If the truth came out, it wouldn’t just destroy Cash’s legacy. Bogdan would fall with it.

He picked up the phone and called a number.

On the other side, Flint heard the order.

“Target: June Holloway. Eliminate the witness.”

Flint acted at 2 a.m., three days after Bogdan’s call.

He didn’t use a gun because guns leave ballistics. He didn’t use a knife because knives leave DNA.

He used fire.

Fire erases everything. Evidence. Witnesses. Memory. Everything reduced to ash. And the story becomes an electrical accident in an old house. Simple. Clean. The kind of solution Bogdan Petrescu preferred.

Ren was sleeping on the living room couch in June’s house when the smell of smoke woke her.

Not cooking smoke. Chemical smoke. Thick. Strong. The smell of industrial accelerant soaking old wood and catching fire.

She opened her eyes and saw orange light jumping across the ceiling. The kitchen in the back was already burning, flames climbing the wall faster than anything she’d ever seen.

She screamed June’s name. No answer.

She ran to June’s room. The smoke was so thick her eyes couldn’t stay open. She moved by memory—four steps forward, then left. June’s bed in the right corner.

Her hand found June’s shoulder. June didn’t wake. The smoke had made her unconscious before the fire reached her.

Ren pulled her to the floor and dragged her down the hallway, her own body pressed against the floor where breathable air was, one hand gripping June’s nightgown collar and pulling her forward, one meter at a time, toward the front door.

The fire had already reached the hallway when she kicked the door open and dragged June onto the grass.

Neighbors had called the fire department. Sirens were already rising in the distance.

Ren fell to her knees on the wet lawn, coughing hard enough to tear her chest. Her eyes burned so badly she could barely see, one hand still gripping June.

She was alive, but her right arm and back were severely burned. Her lungs filled with smoke. Her body unconscious.

The ambulance arrived in twelve minutes. Ren went with her to the hospital, sitting in the back, holding June’s hand, still wearing sleepwear that smelled like smoke.

And for the first time in a long time, Ren Calloway cried—not from exhaustion, but from fear.

I got the call at 3:15 a.m.

Jonas called, his voice brief and direct.

“June Holloway’s house was deliberately set on fire. June is in the hospital. Ren is safe.”

I stood in the middle of the penthouse living room with the phone to my ear and said nothing. I didn’t yell. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t curse.

My face didn’t change. But my eyes did.

Jonas couldn’t see them through the line, but if he could, he would’ve recognized them immediately—because he’d seen those eyes exactly once before, on the night I was nineteen, the night I killed my first man. Eyes that darkened not from anger, but because everything inside had shifted to a state no one wanted to face.

“Find who did this,” I said, my voice so flat it didn’t sound human anymore. “Bring him to me breathing.”