For eighty-nine days, the most feared man in Boston never opened his eyes—and somehow, I became the only person who spoke to him like he could still hear me. Then one stormy night, after I finished reading beside his bed and whispered, “Stay,” something happened that made every monitor in the ICU change at once. At 3:17 a.m., Mercy West Medical Center felt colder than usual. Rain streaked down the ICU windows, machines clicked in steady rhythms, and the fluorescent lights made everyone look more exhausted than they already were. My patient in room 412 had been unconscious for almost three months.

The world exploded into chaos.

Deafening alarms shrieked through the abandoned wing. The ceiling sprinklers burst open, flooding the room with a torrential downpour of icy, chemical-smelling water.

Silas yelled in surprise, dropping his gun as the high-pressure water blinded him. Mr. Harrison slipped on the wet linoleum and went down hard.

I didn't hesitate. I shoved the double doors open and bolted into the room.

Dr. Aris lunged at me, but growing up in the foster system had taught me how to fight dirty. I swung the heavy fire extinguisher I had carried from the elevator and smashed it directly into his kneecap. He howled and collapsed.

I reached Dominic. He was already working his wrist free, using a jagged piece of metal he had somehow hidden under his fingernail to cut the leather strap.

“Clara,” he gasped, water pouring down his face. “You shouldn't have come back.”

“Shut up and move,” I yelled over the alarms, slicing through the rest of his restraints with medical shears I pulled from my pocket.

He stumbled as he stood, his muscles atrophied from three months in a bed. I threw his heavy arm over my shoulder, bearing his weight. We bolted for the service stairs just as Silas found his gun and fired blindly through the water. A bullet shattered the tile inches from my head.

We dragged ourselves up three flights of stairs in the dark, the alarms echoing endlessly. Dominic was breathing harshly, his face gray. We burst out into a side alley behind the hospital.

The rain outside was just as fierce as the sprinklers inside. We hid behind a row of industrial dumpsters, gasping for air.

Dominic slid down the brick wall, pressing a hand to his ribs. He looked up at me, his storm-gray eyes wide with a terrifying vulnerability.

“Lily,” he choked out. “Is she…?”

“She’s safe,” I said quickly, dropping to my knees beside him. “She’s with Martha at my apartment. They are perfectly safe.”

Dominic closed his eyes, his head falling back against the brick. A ragged sob tore from his chest. The dangerous, terrifying port king of Boston was just a broken father. The tears mingled with the rain on his face.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “You saved my world, Clara.”

“We need to go to the police,” I said, pulling out my phone. “I have Silas on video confessing to shooting you.”

Dominic’s eyes snapped open, sharp and alert. He grabbed my wrist, much like he had when he first woke up. “No. No police. The police chief is on Silas’s payroll. That’s how Silas knew the DOJ was moving in. If you call local cops, we’re dead in ten minutes.”

“Then who do we call?” I asked, panic rising again.

Before he could answer, my phone vibrated in my hand.

It was a text from Martha.