The moment I see Annie crumpled in the lobby of my building, my world tilts on its axis.
She's a mess—dress torn at the front, barefoot, and shivering. Her hair is wild around her face, her hands bloody. The blood is streaked on her face and dress now, too, and my mind is racing with the possibilities of what might have happened to cause this.
But it's her eyes that stop my heart. They're wide and glassy with shock, the vibrant blue I know so well now dulled with trauma. She looks like she's seen hell, and something inside my chest breaks clean in half.
She staggers to her feet, still clutching her dress as if it’s going to fall open if she lets go of it. There’s no heat in that thought, nothing but horror as I try to figure out what’s going on.
"Jesus Christ. Annie, what happened?”
She opens her mouth like she's going to answer, but instead of words, a sob tears out of her throat. Then she staggers forward, collapsing against me, her body shaking so violently I'm afraid she might fall apart entirely.
I catch her against my chest, my arms going around her instinctively. She feels so small, so fragile, nothing like thestrong, composed woman who handles the finances for one of Boston's most powerful crime families.
"It's okay," I murmur against her hair, though nothing about this is okay. "You're safe now. I've got you."
She clings to me like I'm the only thing keeping her upright, her fingers fisting in my T-shirt. The sobs are coming harder now, great shuddering gasps that shake her entire frame.
Who did this to her?
The thought comes with a surge of rage so pure and violent it nearly brings me to my knees. Someone hurt her. Someone put their hands on Annie O'Malley and hurt her, and I'm going to find them and tear them apart with my bare hands.
But first, I need to take care of her.
"Come on," I say softly, guiding her back toward the elevator. "Let's get you inside."
She doesn't resist when I lead her to the elevator, or when I tap my keycard for us to go up. She just leans against me, shivering and crying, staring at nothing with those haunted eyes.
I've seen trauma before—in Chicago, in the life we live, violence is never far away. But seeing it on Annie, seeing her reduced to this broken, terrified version of herself, makes me want to burn down half of Boston until I find who's responsible.
My jaw is tight as I wait for us to get to my floor, my insides vibrating with the need to find out what’s happened. But I have to be gentle with her. I don’t want to scare her further, do anything to make this worse. She came to me for protection—a thing that makes my chest feel tight and strange—and I don’t want her to regret that choice.
I led her out of the elevator and past my security, unlocking my front door with the keycard. Carefully, I guide her to the black leather sofa in my living room, urging her to sit down. She collapses onto it, still shivering, and I swallow hard.
"Annie." I kneel in front of her, keeping my voice low and gentle. "Sweetheart, I need you to tell me what happened. Who did this to you?"
She shakes her head violently, the movement sending fresh tears down her cheeks.
"Okay, okay. You don't have to talk right now." I reach out slowly, telegraphing my movements, and brush a strand of hair away from her face. She flinches at the contact, and the rage in my chest burns hotter. "Are you hurt? Do I need to take you to a hospital?"
Another head shake, this one less violent. Progress, maybe.
"All right. Let's get you cleaned up first, then we'll figure out the rest."
I’m loath to leave her even for a second, but she came here, so I don’t think she’s going anywhere. I walk quickly to the downstairs bathroom, running a washcloth under hot water and wringing it out, and grabbing a first-aid kit from under the sink in case the blood is from any injuries of her own. When I come back out, Annie hasn't moved from where I left her, still shivering on the couch.
“I’m going to wipe some of the blood off, okay?” I reach for a blanket and wrap it around her shoulders, hiding her front from view as I reach for her hand. “I’m going to take care of you, Annie. Just sit still and we’ll get through this.”
She doesn't react when I gently wipe at the blood on her hands, then on her face. The detachment is almost worse than the tears—at least when she was crying she was present. This blank, hollow stare makes me feel like she's a million miles away. The bruises on her wrists are darker now, clearly fingerprints, and I see marks on her throat.
My hands shake with suppressed fury as I examine it, looking for signs that it might be worse than it appears.
Breathe, Cattaneo. She needs you calm right now.
Her hand is cut. I look at her as I reach for an alcohol pad, my movements tense. “I need to clean this. It’s going to hurt,” I warn her, and she nods mutely, tears still dripping down her cheeks. The way she flinches when I gently start to clean the cuts on her palm feels as if I’m slicing myself to ribbons.
I gently spread some antibacterial ointment on the cuts and wrap her hand, setting it down gingerly into her lap. "There," I say once I've done what I can with her visible injuries. "Better?"
She doesn't answer, but she's stopped shaking quite so violently. I settle onto the couch beside her, careful to leave space between us, and try to figure out my next move.
