I lost the job that could have saved my life because I stopped to help a stranger collapse on a Chicago sidewalk. Three days later, I learned she was the mother of the city’s most feared Mafia boss—and her son had already decided my life was about to change.

The rain was pouring in relentless sheets over Cicero when our convoy of four armored SUVs tore through the industrial alleyways.

Inside the lead vehicle, Adrian sat silently beside me, checking a sleek silver pistol before holstering it beneath his jacket. Viktor was driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as we wove through the dark, warehouse-lined streets.

"You don't have to go inside, Nora," Adrian warned over the roar of the engine. "My men can bring the wounded out to the vehicle."

"If someone has a arterial bleed, waiting two extra minutes to move them across a wet parking lot will kill them," I replied calmly, adjusting the straps of my tactical trauma pack. "I stay near the action. That was the deal."

Adrian stared at me, a mixture of frustration and dark admiration flickering in his gaze. "You're infuriatingly stubborn."

"I've worked the South Side graveyard shift for six years, Mr. Hargrove," I retorted. "A little rain and gunfire doesn't scare me."

The convoy slammed to a halt behind a sprawling brick warehouse. The scent of burning rubber, ozone, and copper hung thick in the air. Muffled gunfire echoed from inside the structure.

Viktor threw his door open. "Clear!"

Adrian moved with lightning speed, stepping out first to form a barrier between me and the open alley. Four heavily armed guards flanked us as we surged through a shattered side door into the dimly lit warehouse.

The scene inside was pure bedlam. High shelves stacked with medical crates loomed over concrete aisles slick with water and oil. Two Hargrove guards were pinned behind a forklift, trading shots with three gunmen clad in dark gear at the far end of the facility.

"Cover!" Adrian roared, pulling his weapon and firing three rapid, precise shots that forced the attackers back behind a row of steel shipping containers.

I didn't wait for the firefight to end. I spotted a man slumped against the base of a concrete pillar twenty feet away, clutching his side. Blood was pouring through his fingers, pooling rapidly on the cold floor.

"Nora, wait!" Adrian yelled.

I ducked low, staying beneath the line of sight, and sprinted across the concrete aisle. I dropped to my knees beside the fallen guard—a young guy, no older than twenty-four, his face pale and slick with sweat.

"Hold still," I commanded, pulling trauma shears from my vest and ripping open his dark uniform shirt.

A heavy caliber bullet had caught him in the upper abdomen, missing his body armor.

"I'm... I'm bleeding out, doc," the kid gasped, his eyes wide with blind panic.

"You're not dying on my shift," I snapped, my paramedic instincts taking over completely. I jammed a blood-clotting gauze deep into the wound, pressing down with all my body weight.

The kid screamed in agony.

"Stay with me!" I yelled over the deafening cracks of gunfire. "Look at me! What's your name?"

"L-Liam," he choked out.

"Focus on my voice, Liam! Keep breathing!"

Footsteps rushed up behind me. I reached instinctively for my shears to use as a weapon, but turned to find Adrian standing over us, using his broad frame to shield both Liam and me from incoming rounds. He emptied his magazine down the corridor, suppressing the enemy position, before dropping to one knee beside me.

"Is he going to make it?" Adrian asked, his voice calm despite the chaos.

"He will if we get him to my trauma bay in twenty minutes!" I shouted, applying a compression bandage over the wound. "I need Viktor to carry him!"

"Viktor! Move!" Adrian commanded into his shoulder radio.

Within seconds, Viktor and another guard rushed forward, lifting Liam onto a portable stretcher.

Suddenly, a loud, metallic voice echoed through the warehouse’s public address system, distortion squealing through the speakers.

"Adrian!" the voice sneered, dripping with sadistic pleasure. "I see you brought your new toy to the party!"

Adrian froze, his eyes narrowing into deadly slits as he looked up toward the overhead catwalks.

Standing on the high metal balcony, illuminated by the emergency floodlights, was a tall, thin man with a scarred neck and slicked-back grey hair. Julian Vance.

"Julian," Adrian called out, his voice echoing through the vast space, steady and menacing. "You walked into the wrong house tonight."

"Did I?" Julian laughed, holding a small detonator in his gloved hand. "I just wanted to see the famous Nora Callahan in person. The girl who ruined my plans on Michigan Avenue. She’s quite pretty, Adrian. It would be a shame if she ended up buried under ten tons of concrete."

My heart stopped.

Julian Vance wasn't here to steal pharmaceuticals.