Chapter 1 - The Woman They Came to Collect
Hazel grabbed Damian’s bleeding arm and whispered, “Don’t fall.”
Damian Romano looked down and saw a silver bracelet caught beneath her torn maid’s cuff.
Three letters had been scratched into its clasp.
W.S.B.
Damian stopped breathing.
This was not a random debt.
Hazel Brooks had been awake for twenty-one hours, but exhaustion disappeared the moment Damian’s weight shifted against her.
“Sit down.”
“I can walk.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“I noticed.”
“Then apparently noticing isn’t helping.”
The words escaped before Hazel could stop them.
Her face immediately warmed.
Damian Romano stared at her.
Nobody spoke to him that way.
Certainly not the night maid who normally became nearly invisible whenever he entered a room.
Hazel swallowed.
“Sorry.”
His eyes remained on her.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That word.”
Hazel helped him toward the leather sofa.
“What word?”
“Sorry.”
She lowered him carefully.
“I say it when I’ve done something wrong.”
“You also say it when you haven’t.”
That silenced her.
Damian leaned back.
His face revealed almost nothing, but pain had tightened the muscles around his eyes.
Hazel opened the medical kit.
She had learned basic wound care while helping her younger sister, Emily, study for nursing school. She had never imagined using it on a mafia boss at two in the morning.
“Your shirt.”
One eyebrow rose.
Hazel nearly died of embarrassment.
“I mean—I need to see the wound.”
Without comment, Damian unbuttoned his bloodstained shirt.
Hazel concentrated very hard on the injury.
That became difficult.
His chest was covered with tattoos.
Dates.
Names.
Religious symbols.
A black rose over his heart.
Hazel looked away.
Damian noticed.
“You frightened?”
“Of blood?”
“Of me.”
Hazel soaked gauze in antiseptic.
“Yes.”
His expression didn't change.
At least she had answered honestly.
“But right now,” she added, “I’m more frightened you’re going to bleed on a sofa that probably costs more than my car.”
Something unexpected happened.
Damian almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the security alert sounded.
One sharp tone.
Damian became a different man.
The wounded man disappeared.
“Stay here.”
He rose.
Hazel stared at him.
“You can barely stand.”
“Hazel.”
It was the first time she had heard him say her name.
She froze.
Damian touched the communication panel.
“Report.”
His security chief, Marco Bellini, answered immediately.
“Three vehicles on the western access road. Sullivan plates.”
Hazel dropped the gauze.
Damian looked at it.
Then at her.
“Interesting.”
“I—”
“Marco. Lock the floor.”
Steel shutters descended across the windows.
Heavy locks engaged.
Hazel felt the room shrink.
Damian turned.
“Why does the name Sullivan frighten you?”
“It doesn’t.”
“You just dropped something.”
“I’m tired.”
“Try again.”
Hazel looked at the floor.
For six months, she had survived by telling herself that Wyatt’s disappearance would eventually stop mattering.
It hadn’t.
His debt followed her.
His enemies followed her.
Now they had found the one place she had believed was safe.
“I knew someone who had trouble with them.”
“Who?”
“My boyfriend.”
Damian’s gaze sharpened.
“Current?”
“Former.”
“Name.”
“Wyatt Mercer.”
Nothing moved in Damian’s face.
But Hazel saw something.
Recognition.
“You know him.”
“I know the name.”
Her stomach tightened.
“From where?”
Damian ignored the question.
“How much?”
Hazel stared at him.
“How much does Sullivan say Mercer owes?”
“Sixty thousand.”
“And why are they collecting from you?”
“They have paperwork.”
“Paperwork.”
“My signature is on it.”
“Did you sign?”
“No.”
There was no hesitation.
Damian noticed.
“Then why pay?”
Hazel’s eyes burned.
“Because people who threaten your family don’t care whether a signature is authentic.”
Damian went still.
“What family?”
Hazel wished she could pull the words back.
“My sister.”
“How?”
She said nothing.
Damian stepped closer.
“What did they do?”
“They sent me a picture.”
“Of your sister?”
“Her school.”
“When?”
“Three days ago.”
“And you told nobody.”
“Who exactly was I supposed to tell?”
“The police.”
Hazel gave him a look.
Damian understood immediately.
Sullivan had police officers.
Judges.
Union officials.
People who wore expensive suits and shook hands for photographs.
Damian knew because he had some of his own.
“What did the message say?”
Hazel whispered, “Friday.”
Today was Thursday.
Damian looked toward the steel-covered windows.
The Sullivan vehicles had not arrived by coincidence.
“Show me the photograph.”
“It’s on my phone.”
“Get it.”
Hazel hesitated.
“Now.”
She hurried to retrieve her phone from her apron.
Her fingers shook as she opened the message.
Damian took it.
Emily stood outside the nursing school.
She had no idea someone had photographed her.
Damian zoomed in.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He enlarged the reflection in a glass doorway.
A man stood across the street.
Damian recognized him.
Marco entered seconds later.
“Boss.”
Damian showed him the screen.
Marco swore.
Hazel looked between them.
“Who is he?”
“Patrick Sullivan’s collector,” Marco said.
Damian handed the phone back.
“Move her sister.”
Hazel stood.
“No.”
Both men looked at her.
“What do you mean, move her?”
“To somewhere Sullivan can’t reach.”
“You can’t just kidnap my sister.”
Marco almost smiled.
Damian did not.
“I’m not kidnapping anyone.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Keeping her alive.”
Hazel folded her arms.
“You don’t even know me.”
Damian’s gaze lowered briefly toward her hands.
“No. But Sullivan came onto my road looking for you.”
“So?”
“So he made it my business.”
Hazel understood enough about men like Damian to recognize the significance.
Territory.
Pride.
Power.
She hated that those things might be the only reason Emily survived.
But survival was survival.
“Will she be safe?”
“Yes.”
“How can you promise that?”
“Because I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
Marco interrupted.
“There’s more.”
Damian turned.
“The cars pulled back.”
“Why?”
“They got what they wanted.”
Hazel’s stomach dropped.
“What?”
Marco looked at her.
“Confirmation.”
“Of what?”
“That she works here.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Someone had told them.
Hazel had never listed Romano Estate as her employer.
Her employment contract used a private domestic-services company.
Even Emily didn’t know exactly where she worked.
“Who knew?” Damian asked.
“About my job?”
“Yes.”
“Wyatt.”
“When?”
“Before he disappeared.”
Damian and Marco exchanged a glance.
Hazel saw it.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Damian walked toward his desk.
He unlocked the bottom drawer.
Inside were files Hazel had dusted around a hundred times without touching.
Damian removed one.
MERCER, WYATT.
Hazel forgot to breathe.
“You have a file on him?”
Damian placed it down.
“Your boyfriend didn’t disappear.”
Her throat tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“He worked for Sullivan.”
“No.”
“He carried money between shell companies.”
“No.”
“He provided addresses.”
“Stop.”
“He provided names.”
Hazel backed away.
“That isn’t Wyatt.”
“You knew a version of him.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I know exactly what he was.”
“Was?”
Damian realized the word he had used.
Hazel did too.
Her voice became tiny.
“Is he dead?”
Damian didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Hazel turned away.
For six months she had imagined Wyatt somewhere else.
Scared.
Hiding.
Maybe ashamed.
She had hated him.
Missed him.
Dreamed about finding him.
Now the room seemed tilted.
“I need air.”
“You can’t leave this floor.”
“I need air.”
Damian stepped toward her.
Hazel backed away.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
That surprised her.
Men usually interpreted fear as permission to move closer.
Damian didn't.
He waited.
Hazel covered her mouth.
“I paid almost eighteen thousand dollars.”
Damian said nothing.
“I took this job because of him.”
Still nothing.
“I stopped sleeping because of him.”
Her voice broke.
“And he was working for them?”
“We don't know everything yet.”
“You just said—”
“I said what the file establishes. I didn't say we know why.”
Hazel wiped her face angrily.
Damian looked uncomfortable.
Not because she was crying.
Because he wanted to do something and didn't know what.
Four years without touching anyone had apparently left even Damian Romano uncertain about comforting a woman.
Hazel sat down.
Minutes passed.
Then Damian sat at the opposite end of the sofa.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
Just there.
It was strangely kinder than anything he could have said.
By four in the morning, Marco had moved Emily to a secure apartment without telling her more than necessary.
By five, Damian's wound had stopped bleeding.
By six, Hazel could barely keep her eyes open.
“You should sleep,” Damian said.
“I’m working.”
“You’re falling asleep sitting upright.”
“I can multitask.”
Her eyes closed.
Damian looked at her.
“Hazel.”
No answer.
Her head slowly tipped sideways.
Then landed against his chest.
Damian froze.
Four years.
Four years since Elena.
Four years since another human being had rested against him without fear or calculation.
Hazel breathed softly.
Her hand curled unconsciously into his shirt.
Damian should have moved her.
Instead, very slowly, he placed an arm around her shoulders.
He remained like that until dawn.
When Hazel woke, humiliation arrived instantly.
“Oh my God.”
She jumped away.
“Sorry. I didn't—”
“Stop apologizing.”
The study door opened.
Marco entered.
His expression was grim.
“We have a problem.”
Damian stood.
“The Sullivan cars weren’t watching the estate.”
Marco looked at Hazel.
“They were looking for someone.”
Damian’s voice became quiet.
“Who?”
“Her.”
Hazel went pale.
Damian moved in front of her.
“Then tell Sullivan she’s under my protection now.”
Marco didn't move.
“What?”
“There’s something else.”
He placed a photograph on Damian’s desk.
It showed Hazel entering the estate three months earlier.
Damian turned it over.
A message had been written across the back.
DELIVER HER BEFORE FRIDAY.
Beneath it was a signature.
Damian stared at the name.
Hazel stepped closer.
“Who signed it?”
Damian covered the name with his hand.
Too late.
Hazel had already seen it.
Wyatt Mercer.
And according to Damian’s own records, Wyatt Mercer had been dead for six months.
Then the locked phone inside Damian’s desk began ringing.
The caller ID showed the same name.
WYATT MERCER.
May you like
Damian slowly reached for the phone.
Someone answered before he touched it.
