Vincent Moretti promised his pregnant wife he would come back for her after their private jet made a terrifying emergency landing.

The surgical waiting room at Northwestern Memorial Hospital was bathed in the harsh, unforgiving glare of fluorescent tubes.

It was 4:00 AM.

Anna sat on a vinyl chair, her green silk dress from the gala still stained with dried, oxidized blood. Julian Sterling sat beside her, holding a cup of untouched black coffee. Leo was asleep down the hall in a private pediatric recovery suite, guarded by six Bennett security operatives.

Detective Marcus Vance stood near the doorway, his coat wet from the endless Chicago rain.

"Sophia Carter will never see the light of day," Marcus said quietly. "The federal prosecutor just added interstate conspiracy to murder and racketeering. The cartel members involved in the park were rounded up across the city two hours ago."

Anna didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the red illuminated sign above the double doors: *SURGICAL SUITE B - IN PROGRESS.*

For seven hours, three teams of trauma surgeons had been cracking Vincent’s chest open, repairing shredded lung tissue, replacing units of blood, and fighting to keep his heart beating.

"You don't have to stay, Anna," Julian said gently. "You don't owe him this vigil."

Anna looked at her hands. Vincent’s blood was embedded beneath her fingernails.

"I thought I hated him, Julian," she whispered, her voice hollow. "For three years, the only thing that kept me moving through the skin grafts, through the physical therapy, through the sleepless nights of raising Leo alone, was the fire of my hatred for Vincent."

"And now?"

"Now I know that hatred is just love that’s been burned alive," Anna wiped a tear from her cheek. "He took two bullets for Leo. He didn't hesitate. He knew he was going to die, and he threw himself into the fire anyway."

The heavy double doors of the surgical suite swung open with a pneumatic hiss.

Dr. Chen, the chief of trauma surgery, walked out, pulling his blue surgical mask down to his neck. His face was gray with fatigue.

Anna sprang to her feet, her heart leaping into her throat. "Doctor?"

Dr. Chen took a deep breath. "He’s alive, Mrs. Moretti."

Anna let out a strangled gasp, her knees nearly giving out. Julian caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

"The round to the abdomen missed the hepatic artery by two millimeters," Dr. Chen explained. "The round to his chest punctured his right lung and cracked two ribs, but our surgeons managed to stem the hemorrhaging. He lost an immense amount of blood. He’s in a medically induced coma in the ICU. The next forty-eight hours will be critical, but the man has the constitution of an ox. He fought like hell to stay on that table."

"Can I see him?" Anna asked, her voice trembling.

"Briefly. Only immediate family."

Anna looked at Julian. Julian gave her a solemn, understanding nod.