Chapter 1 - Stitches and ShadowsThe needle went through his skin with a dull, wet resistance.
Immani’s palms were slick with sweat, despite the radiator clanking out a drafty, tepid air. Her fingers were stiff from the bitter Chicago cold outside, but she pulled the coarse thread through, tying a knot just like her grandmother had taught her when she was twelve and her cousin had caught his arm on rusty chain-link fence.
"Only when they bleed on my sheets," Immani answered, her voice surprisingly steady given that her pulse was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Cade Jin-Wu didn't move. He sat braced against the peeling drywall, his eyes half-lidded, dark and unreadable. Up close, without the tailored velvet lapels and the entourage of heavy-set men in black wool coats, he looked less like a mythical predator and more like a man composed of sharp angles and dangerous luck. His jaw was dusted with dark stubble, a deep split running through his bottom lip.
"Your hand is steady," he grunted, the muscles in his lean abdomen taut as she wiped away a fresh smudge of crimson with an old cotton washcloth.
"I scrub forty floors a night, Mr. Jin-Wu. If my hands shook, I’d drop the industrial floor wax, and then I’d be out of a job and a place to sleep." Immani tied off the second stitch, her knuckle brushing his warm, blood-warmed skin. She pulled back instantly, wiping her hands on her apron. "There. It's ugly, it's probably going to leave a mark, and it's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. But you won't bleed to death on my floor."
Cade looked down at the clumsy line of black thread closing the gap along his ribs. His expression didn't soften, but something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of cold, calculating re-evaluation.
"You're not asking for money," he said flatly.
"I'm not stupid," Immani snapped, tossing the bloody rags into a plastic grocery bag and knotting it tight. "If I ask you for money, then this becomes a transaction. And if it's a transaction, your people—or your brother's people—will think I know something. I don't know anything. I found a dying man on Michigan Avenue, I patched him up, and as soon as the sun comes up, he's walking out that door."
"My brother took the West Side docks two hours ago," Cade said softly, staring at the small yellowed bulb hanging from her ceiling. "My lieutenant, Marcus, didn't answer his phone. By now, every crew from Pilsen to the river thinks I'm dead at the bottom of Lake Michigan."
Immani paused, her hand hovering over her tiny two-burner hot plate. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Cade said, slowly shifting his weight with a sharp intake of breath, "if they find out I'm breathing, they won't just come for me. They'll look at the street cameras outside The Pinnacle. They'll see a woman in a heavy blue jacket walking away with a man who couldn't keep his feet."
The cold inside the apartment suddenly felt ten degrees colder. Immani turned around slowly, her hands balling into fists inside the pockets of her oversized sweater.
"I saved your life," she whispered, anger flaring through her fear. "I could have left you for the snow plows."
"And I am grateful," Cade said. For the first time, his tone lost its sharp, metallic edge, dropping into something dangerously quiet. "Which is why I'm telling you the truth. My brother, Julian... he doesn't leave loose threads, Immani. He burned our uncle's house in Oak Park just to prove a point about loyalty. If you kick me out right now, you might be safe for twelve hours. Or you might walk down to your shift tomorrow night and find two men waiting in the service alley."
"You're holding me hostage," she spat.
"No," Cade replied, leaning his head back against the wall, his dark eyes fixed on her. "I'm offering you a deal. Give me three days. Three days to heal enough to stand, to make contact with the few men I still trust. You keep me hidden, you keep your head down, and when this is over, I will make sure you never have to scrub another floor in this city again."
"And if you lose?" Immani asked, stepping closer to the mattress, her shadow falling over him. "If your brother finds you here?"
Cade’s lip curled into a dark, ruthless line that reminded her exactly who was lying on her faded floral sheet.
"Then we both die," he said simply. "But I promise you, I'll take him with me."
Immani stared at him for a long, agonizing minute. The radiator let out a loud, shuddering hiss, spitting a drop of rusty water onto the linoleum. Outside, the Chicago wind howled through the alley, rattling the thin windowpane in its wooden frame. She thought about her bank account—four hundred and twelve dollars. She thought about her rent, due in five days. She thought about the way the shift supervisor at The Pinnacle looked at her like she was invisible, a ghost in a blue uniform.
She walked over to her thrift-store armchair, pulled off her worn coat, and threw it over his chest.
"You sleep on the mattress," she said coldly. "I take the chair. You touch anything in this room that isn't yours, and I'll use that hot plate on your face. Got it?"
Cade pulled the coat up to his chin, his dark eyes tracking her every move as she sank into the squeaking armchair.
"Understood, Immani," he murmured.
By three in the morning, the apartment was dark except for the orange glow of the streetlamp leaking through the blinds. Immani sat awake, her back stiff against the worn cushion of the chair, a heavy iron frying pan resting across her knees. Across the tiny room, the most feared crime boss in Chicago was breathing slowly, his face smoothed by sleep, looking almost human in the dim light.
She didn't sleep a wink.
At 6:00 AM, the sound began.
It wasn't thunder, and it wasn't the radiator. It was the low, rhythmic rumbling of heavy engines idling in the alley three floors below.
Immani crept to the window, keeping her body pressed flush against the frame, and parted two slats of the blinds with one finger.
Parked directly beneath her fire escape was a sleek, jet-black Lincoln Navigator. The windows were heavily tinted, but through the windshield, she could see the glow of a cigarette ember. Two men in thick leather jackets stepped out into the falling snow, their eyes scanning the rear of the building, checking the numbers on the trash bins.
One of them reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper, looking up at her window.
May you like
Immani pulled her hand back as if she had been burned, her heart dropping straight into her stomach.
They were already here.
