"Snow had buried Chicago for three straight days, but the cold wasn’t what terrified me most that afternoon. With only $11.70 in my bank account and my eight-month-old daughter hidden beneath my coat, I was about to sneak a baby into the back of the most dangerous mafia restaurant in the city—and pray Reed Callaway never found out.

The silence in the penthouse stretched so long I could hear the distant hum of city traffic far below.

A trust fund for Ava. Freedom from the crushing, suffocating weight of poverty that had threatened to pull me under every single day since she was born. But the price was tying myself to Reed Callaway—a man who operated outside the law, a man whose enemies ended up in the Chicago River.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I whispered, my voice shaking. “How do I know you won't just get what you want and leave us with nothing?”

Reed stopped inches away from me. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing past my collar to pick up a stray piece of hair blown wild by the wind, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

“Because men like me have many faults, Maya, but we keep our word,” he said, his voice deep and hypnotic. “If I wanted you gone, you would already be gone. Instead, I’m offering you a partnership.”

I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. This is temporary. This is survival.

“Fine,” I said, opening my eyes to meet his intense gaze. “What do you need me to do first?”

A thin, dangerous smile touched the corner of Reed’s lips. “First, we unlock the old laptop Marcus left behind in your apartment storage.”

Within two hours, one of Reed’s technical specialists had retrieved a dusty, password-protected laptop from my basement storage unit. Sitting at Reed’s sleek glass desk under the watchful eye of both Reed and Tommy Ritchie, I typed out the security questions Marcus used to use—his mother's maiden name, the name of his first childhood dog, the street we lived on when we first met.

Access granted.

Files, bank statements, and encrypted communication logs flooded the screen. As I scrolled through the digital folders, my heart shattered all over again. Proof of his lies, proof of his betrayal, and—buried deep within a hidden directory—the exact routing numbers for the offshore accounts Reed was looking for.

“There,” I whispered, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. “That’s where he stashed it.”

Reed leaned over my shoulder, his warm breath brushing against my neck as he studied the screen. His hand brushed against mine on the mousepad, sending an electric shock straight through my veins.

“Good girl,” Reed murmured softly, so close I could feel the vibration of his chest.