The penthouse was a cocoon of quiet after the chaos of the docks, the amber glow of the lounge’s sconces casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. Sayrn Sauns sat on the leather couch, her medical kit open on the coffee table, her hands still steady from stabilizing Tommy’s gunshot wound hours earlier. At twenty-eight, with her RN degree earned earlier this year, she was no stranger to blood and pressure in Chicago General’s ER, but the firefight at the docks—Varga’s ambush, the collapsed deal with the Italians—had brought Daniel Isiah’s dangerous world into sharp focus. Her chestnut hair was still tucked under the dark cap she’d worn, now discarded beside her, and her navy sweater was flecked with Tommy’s blood, a stark reminder of the stakes.
Daniel paced near the bar, his black l
