Her voice breaks. “There was a hit. Two nights ago. Southsidewarehouse. He was ambushed leaving a meeting. They think it was the Marchetti crew, but—” her inhale shudders, “it doesn’t matter. He’s been in the ICU ever since. It’s bad, Zara. He might not make it through the week.”
The room tilts. The bag slips off the dresser and thuds to the floor, but I can’t move, can’t breathe.
Declan.
My brother. My protector. We were inseparable once, before the world hardened us. He used to braid my hair before school when Mom was too tired, used to sneak me out to the lake house when the weight of our last name felt too heavy to carry. The memories hit sharp, lodged like glass under my skin, and I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I know you’d want to know,” Kelly says gently. “Because he keeps asking for you. He’s not lucid most of the time, but when he is—he says your name.” The silence that follows crackles, too heavy, too sharp, and I grip the phone tighter as if that can steady me. Her voice softens to almost a plea. “He doesn’t care what happened with your father. I know you’re scared. But please. If there’s any way?—”
“I can’t just walk into Chicago like nothing happened.” My voice snaps, brittle with panic. “Kelly, I’m wanted. There’s a price on my head.”
“No one’s seen your father in public for weeks,” she rushes out. “There’s talk he’s sick. Some say he’s overseas. The family’s unraveling—alliances breaking, men walking away. I don’t think he’s watching the streets the way he used to.” Her words tumble over each other, desperate, and I press my hand against my sternum, as though I can hold the panic down. Chaos doesn’t mean safety.
“I’ll give you the hospital address,” she presses, voice trembling. “Just—just think about it, Zara. Please.” She gives the name of the hospital, the room number, and then she’s gone. The silence afterward is deafening.
I sit frozen, the phone still against my ear, my body lockedwhile the world tilts around me. My ankle throbs, my chest aches, and I can barely draw air. I haven’t set foot in Chicago in seven years. I left in the middle of the night like a ghost, erasing myself from every record, every contact. I’ve survived by vanishing. But I can’t erase Declan. He’s the reason I know love exists in that family at all, even if it’s buried beneath blood and duty.
Clutching the frozen peas tighter, I hold on like they might anchor me. Going back could mean death. Or worse—Anthony Falco. But staying away could mean losing the only person who ever truly saw me and never getting the chance to say goodbye. And I realize that might kill me just the same.
By noon,my entire life is crammed into two duffel bags—heels, lashes, latex, the whole glitter-soaked disguise. I stare at the contents longer than I should before finally yanking the zippers closed. This gear isn’t just a costume; it’s my armor. It’s how I’ve stayed hidden. People see a stripper and dismiss her. They underestimate her, assuming she’s harmless. They don’t imagine she carries a name that rules men and money, that she grew up in the shadow of Chicago’s most feared Irish crime family. They don’t picture her stripping down under the lights after years of learning how to load a Glock in under ten seconds or how to spot a tail before he ever spots her. That’s the point.
No one looks for a ghost in clear heels.
The burner phone sits on speaker at the edge of the counter while I tape a roll of cash into the lining of my boot. Crow answers on the third ring, voice flat as ever. “What do you need?” No hello, no wasted words.
“A one-way to Chicago. Quiet. Tonight.”
There’s a pause, keys clicking faintly on his end. “Name?”
“Dani Rivera.”
Another pause. Then, “You’re pulling that alias after five years. Something serious?”
“It’s family,” I mutter.
“That could mean revenge. Or suicide.”
“Maybe both.”
A heavy exhale carries through the line before he resumes typing. “You’re booked. Ten forty out of Harry Reid. You’ll land at Midway. Keep your head down. Get a rideshare if you’re smart. Southside’s still crawling with Syndicate eyes.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, but he’s already hung up.
Typical Crow. Business first, humanity last.
I transfer the money, toss the phone into my jacket pocket and head for the bathroom. The mirror above the sink is cracked, the overhead bulb casting everything in a sickly yellow, but it does the job. I study the reflection that stares back at me: hair braided tight, lips bare, eyes cold. It’s the look of a woman bracing herself to go home and say goodbye to her brother, her blood—and praying she can do it without being seen.
The last time I saw the lights of Chicago, I climbed out of my bedroom window and vanished into the dark. I was told I was promised to a viper, bound into a union between two bloodlines, my father’s crowning achievement. I was never his daughter; I was the contract he could barter. The prize to be dressed up in silk and promises.
I burned it all down. Walked away from the life he built for me, from the cage he wrapped in gold. And I know—even now, all these years later—that there’s still a price on my head for daring to run.
They’ll say I dishonored the family. Embarrassed the Brotherhood. But I walked out with more than just my dignity. What they don't know is that I also walked away with their secrets, and those are worth more than any dowry my father tried to barter me for.
I grab my favorite pair of boots—black patent leather with crimson soles—and wedge them between the folds of my stagebag. I’m not naive enough to think I can show my face in the old circles. But dancing? Working in clubs under a new name? That’s always been my safest disguise. Strip clubs are neutral ground, sanctuaries for the damned, and in seven years of running, that truth has kept me alive.
I run one last inventory of my belongings and check my backup ID: Dani Rivera, makeup artist out of San Diego. Cash business, light social footprint, heavy on privacy. It’ll hold. It always has.
Vegas was loud, all flash and glitter, easy to disappear in. Chicago is different. Chicago is blood. It’s betrayal. It’s memories. And somewhere inside that mess is Declan.
