The pediatric procedure room was far too quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of a vitals monitor and the soft humming of the fluorescent lights overhead.

"David, you can't get out of bed!" I yelled, stepping forward as he threw back the hospital sheets, exposing his bandaged abdomen. "You just had major surgery five hours ago! You’ll tear your stitches and bleed to death!"

David didn't listen. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his face going completely pale as agony washed over him, but he forced his feet onto the cold tile floor. He stood up, leaning heavily against Marcus’s shoulder, his breathing ragged and sharp.

"I’ve survived three gunshots, two stabs, and an ambush in Cicero," David rasped, staring directly into my eyes. "I am not dying in a hospital bed while my brother threatens my daughter."

Marcus reached into a leather duffel bag he had brought with him, pulling out a crisp white shirt, a tailored dark suit, and a fresh roll of medical tape. "The chief surgeon is going to lose his mind, Boss."

"Let him," David growled, unhooking his IV line himself and pressing a cotton swab against his vein. He looked at Marcus. "Where is Julian?"

"He set up camp at the executive offices in the River North headquarters," Marcus reported quickly as he helped David pull the white shirt over his bandaged chest. "He’s called an emergency council meeting for noon. He’s telling the capos that you’re brain-dead and that he’s taking over the family."

David buttoned his shirt with steady, methodical fingers, though sweat was pouring down his forehead from the sheer effort of standing. "And what are the capos saying?"

"They’re waiting to see if he has the votes," Marcus said. "If nobody produces proof of life by noon, Julian takes the chair."

David pulled his jacket on, adjusting his cuffs, transforming back into the feared mafia boss of Chicago right before my very eyes. He turned to me.

"Natasha," David said gently, his tone softening as he stepped toward me. "Where is Chloe?"

My heart pounded against my ribs. "She’s in the pediatric recovery room."

"I want to see her," he said softly.

"David, no—"

"I’m not going to scare her," he promised, his eyes filled with a desperate, tender plea. "I just... I just want to see my daughter. Once. Before I go fix this."

I stared at him, seeing the powerful, terrifying man who ruled Chicago, but beneath it all, seeing a man who had just realized he had a daughter he had missed eight years of loving.