No caretaker had lasted more than three days with me after the accident, and I made damn sure of it

The Drake gala re-established my presence in the city, but it also sped up the countdown. Rossi knew that if he didn't take me out now, my capos would fall back in line, and his window of opportunity would slam shut forever.

Three days later, the rot inside my own fortress revealed itself.

It started with a migraine that struck me like a physical blow during our mid-morning strategy session in the oak-paneled library. My vision doubled, dark halos ringed the perimeter of the room, and a metallic, sour taste flooded the back of my throat.

"Carmine," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Get the ledger for the 4th Street properties. I can't read this print."

"It’s twelve-point font, Dominic," Carmine said, looking up from his laptop across the heavy mahogany desk. "You alright? You look like chalk."

"I’m fine. Just get the book."

Faith walked into the library carrying my mid-day medication tray. Since the gala, she had taken over complete control of my daily schedule, displacing Mrs. Gable’s duties with an efficiency that bordered on military precision. She set the small silver cup containing my prescribed neuro-stimulants and blood thinners beside my hand.

Beside the pills sat a glass of freshly pressed pomegranate juice—something Marcus had insisted upon to help with circulation.

I reached for the juice, my hand shaking violently. The glass rattled against the mahogany.

Faith’s hand shot out, catching my wrist before I could lift the rim to my lips.

"Wait," she said, her voice sharp, sudden.

"What?" I snapped, irritated by the sudden flare of vertigo spinning through my head.

Faith didn't answer. She took the glass from my trembling fingers, raised it to her nose, and inhaled deeply. Her brow furrowed into deep, tense lines. She dipped the tip of her little finger into the dark red liquid, touched it to the tip of her tongue, and spat immediately into a clean linen napkin.

"Don't drink that," she ordered.

Carmine was on his feet in half a second, his hand resting on his gun. "Faith, what the hell are you doing?"

"It smells like bitter almonds," she said, her voice tight, urgent. "My mother took baclofen and potassium supplements. When you crush heavy doses of digitalis into an acidic juice, it leaves a faint chemical smell—like burning plastic and almond extract. Where did this juice come from?"

"Elena made it in the kitchen," Carmine said, referring to the second-shift housemaid who had been hired two months ago through a high-end domestic agency.

"Call Dr. Harris," Faith snapped at Carmine, her tone brook no argument. "Now! Dominic’s pupils are blown out. He’s already absorbed something."

The world tilted. The oak walls seemed to melt, the heavy shelves of books sliding sideways. My breath caught in my throat, a vice clamping down around my lungs. The digitalis—or whatever poison had been mixed into the morning batch—was stopping my heart.

"Dominic!"

Faith was down on her knees beside my chair. She grabbed my face with both hands, forcing me to look at her. Her hazel eyes were wide with terror, but beneath the fear was that fierce, unyielding resolve that had kept her alive through hell.

"Look at me! Keep your eyes on mine!" she yelled. "Carmine, get the emergency medical kit from the gym! The atropine injector! Go!"

Carmine vanished out the door with a roar.

I slumped sideways, my head heavy as lead. I couldn't breathe. My chest felt as though an elephant had stepped on my sternum. Dark spots swarmed my vision, eating away at the light until only Faith's face remained, illuminated by the cold Chicago sun cutting through the leaded glass.

"Don't you dare die in this chair," she whispered fiercely, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes, cutting clean tracks through the dust on her cheeks. "Do you hear me, Dominic? You don't get to give up now. Not after Friday. Not after you promised me."

"Faith..." my voice was a strangled wheeze.

"Stay with me!"

She didn't wait for Carmine. She hauled me forward by the lapels of my shirt, slammed her thumb down the back of my throat, triggering a violent, gagging reflex. I heaved forward, vomiting the morning’s contents onto the expensive hardwood floor.

The room erupted into chaos. Carmine burst back in with the medical kit, ripping open an autoinjector of atropine and slamming it through the fabric of my trousers into my outer thigh.

A surge of chemical fire exploded through my cardiovascular system. My heart, which had been slowing to a deadly crawl, kicked violently like an engine catching on starter fluid. Air ripped into my lungs in a ragged, tearing gasp.

I collapsed forward, my forehead resting against Faith’s shoulder. She held me. In front of Carmine, in front of the two armed guards who had rushed into the doorway, she wrapped her arms around my neck, pulling my heavy, trembling frame against her chest, rocking me slightly as my breath returned in deep, shuddering heaves.

"I’ve got you," she whispered into my ear, her voice trembling now that the crisis had passed. "I’ve got you. You’re safe."

Ten minutes later, Carmine returned from the ground floor. His face was gray, his hands stained with engine grease and blood.

"Elena’s car just cleared the north gate," Carmine said through clenched teeth. "She had a fake passport and fifty thousand dollars in cash in the spare tire well. Rossi paid her off three weeks ago. We’re tracking her phone now."

I slowly lifted my head from Faith’s shoulder.

The weakness was fading, replaced by a cold, primordial fury that burned away every trace of the drug. I looked at Carmine, my voice flat, dead, devoid of all human mercy.

"Don't bring her back here," I said softly. "Find her, find who gave her the vial, and make sure Matteo Rossi finds their heads on his dining room table by midnight."

Carmine nodded once, turned, and marched out to unleash hell upon the city.

I sat back in my chair, turning toward Faith. She was sitting on the floor beside me, her hands still shaking, her green flannel shirt stained with my vomit and sweat. She looked exhausted, broken down by the violence of the world she had been dropped into.

"You should have left," I said, my voice thick with emotion I couldn't name. "You could have walked out the front door while everyone was screaming."

Faith looked up at me. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist, leaving a smudge of grime.

"I told you," she said, her voice steadying with every breath. "I don't run from the noise."

I reached down, taking her face in my hands. My thumbs brushed away the wetness beneath her eyes. Her skin was warm, so soft against the calluses of my palms.

"Faith," I murmured, the name sounding like a prayer on my lips. "There is no running now. You’re in this with me."