Chapter 1 - THE BLOOD ON THE BASEMENT FLOORThe name hung in the damp air of Abby’s basement apartment like a toxic mist.
Tommy.
Tommy Gallagher—Declan’s younger brother, his right hand, the golden boy of the Gallagher Syndicate who spent his weekends organizing charity galas for Chicago’s political elite and his weekdays overseeing the family’s legitimate shipping yards.
"Tommy didn't just try to kill me, Abby," Declan rasped, his eyes bloodshot and glassy as he slumped back against her worn flower-print sofa. Blood was rapidly pooling into the faded floral fabric, turning the yellow cotton a heavy, dark crimson. "He took the whole fucking city. He pulled the Commission together at midnight. Told them I lost my mind... told them I was selling our routes to the Russians."
Abby dropped to her knees, tearing open his bloody dress shirt with practiced, brutal efficiency. Beneath the silk, Declan’s chest was a map of old white scars and fresh, ragged violence. A hollow-point bullet had grazed his ribs, carving a hideous five-inch trench through his side that exposed muscle and bone.
"Stay still," she snapped, grabbing a bottle of ninety-percent rubbing alcohol and a roll of heavy medical gauze from her kit. "If you faint on me, Declan, I can't lift six-foot-three of dead weight onto my bed."
Declan let out a harsh, gravelly laugh that immediately turned into a violent cough, blood flecking his split bottom lip. "You’ve lifted me before, sweet girl."
"I was helping you out of a limousine when you had a sprained ankle, you idiot," Abby muttered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She unscrewed the alcohol. "This is going to burn."
"Do it."
She poured the alcohol directly into the wound.
Declan didn't scream. He didn't even flinch. His jaw locked until the muscles strained against his stubble-covered skin, and his huge, calloused hand shot out, locking around Abby’s thick, soft wrist. His grip was frantic, iron-tight, yet careful enough not to bruise her.
His hazel eyes, usually as cold and calculated as winter lake ice, burned into hers with an agonizing, naked intensity.
"Why did you come here?" she whispered, her hands shaking as she began packing the wound with sterile gauze. "You have three safehouses in Gold Coast. You have a penthouse in Miami with a private runway. Why my basement, Declan? I'm just the housekeeper."
"Because you're the only person who doesn't want anything from me," Declan whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the warm skin over her pulse point. "For seven years, Abby... I've watched you walk through my house. Everyone else looks at me and sees a bank account, a boss, or a target. You... you looked at me like I was a human being."
"You're bleeding on my sofa like a human being," she said softly, though a betraying flush of heat rose up her neck, coloring her round, full cheeks.
She had loved him for seven years. Silently. Shamefully.
She was a twenty-six-year-old plus-size woman with a curves-heavy frame, a messy past from the South Side, and a collection of maid uniforms in her closet. He was Declan Gallagher—the undisputed king of the Midwest underworld, a man whose name made congressmen sweat. She had spent seven years smoothing his bedsheets, ironing his charcoal suits, and clearing away half-empty glasses of expensive scotch, pretending her breath didn't catch every time his shoulder accidentally brushed hers in the hallways.
Suddenly, a dull thud echoed from the heavy oak door at the top of her basement stairs.
Abby froze.
Declan’s hand instantly flew to his waistband, but his holster was empty—his pistol was sitting on Abby’s coffee table where she had placed it.
"Abby?" a smooth, refined voice called out from behind the door.
Tommy Gallagher.
"Abby, open up, sweetie," Tommy’s voice came again, laced with fake, sickening concern. "We know Declan came down here. He’s sick, Abby. He’s lost his mind and shot two of my guards at the estate. He’s dangerous."
Declan tried to push himself up from the sofa, his face turning ghost-white from the sheer agony in his side, but Abby pressed her hand firmly against his chest, forcing him back down.
"Stay," she commanded in a breath so low it barely rustled his damp dark hair.
She stood up, pulling a heavy gray cardigan over her stained pajama shirt. She grabbed Declan’s discarded pistol from the table, slipped it into the deep front pocket of her sweater, and walked toward the wooden stairs.
"Abby?" Tommy called out again, his heavy leather boots creaking on the top step. "Don't make my men kick this door down. You're a good girl. I’d hate for you to get caught in the crossfire."
Abby unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the heavy door open three inches, keeping her broad body wedged firmly in the gap.
Standing in the dimly lit hallway were Tommy Gallagher and four heavily armed syndicate enforcers wearing black tactical gear. Tommy was immaculate—his navy suit pressed, his blond hair slicked back, not a single drop of blood on him.
"Mr. Tommy," Abby said, her voice completely flat, completely calm—the exact tone she used when telling guests the kitchen was closed. "It's three in the morning. What is going to happen to my security deposit?"
Tommy smiled, a cold, shark-like flash of teeth. "Where is he, Abby?"
"Who?"
"My brother. He was spotted entering the servant quarters ten minutes ago."
Abby scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest—her right hand resting snugly against the cold iron frame of the pistol in her pocket.
"Mr. Tommy, I weigh two hundred and ten pounds, and I've been sleeping since midnight," she said, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe, projecting an aura of pure, unbothered annoyance. "If your brother slipped past your guards and entered this wing, that sounds like a security failure on your part, not mine. Do you want me to check his laundry basket while I'm at it?"
One of the enforcers stepped forward, raising an assault rifle. "Let us search the unit, bitch."
Before the guard could take another step, Abby took a aggressive step forward into his personal space, her full, formidable height and broad shoulders completely blocking the entryway. She didn't flinch at the sight of the rifle.
"Touch me," Abby growled, her voice dropping an octave into pure South-Side steel, "and I promise you, when Don Declan recovers from whatever mess you boys created tonight, I will tell him you laid a hand on me. Who do you think he’ll skin first? Me... or you?"
The guard hesitated, his eyes flicking nervously toward Tommy. Everyone in the Gallagher Syndicate knew Don Declan’s golden rule: Servants, women, and children are untouchable.
Tommy stared at Abby for five agonizing seconds. He looked at her dark hair tied in a messy bun, her plain face, her oversized sweater, and the absolute lack of fear in her dark eyes.
"He's not here," Tommy muttered, stepping back. "If he were here, she’d be crying. She’s just a scared housemaid."
Tommy pointed a finger at her. "If you see him, Abby, you call my cell. If you shelter a traitor, I’ll have you buried under the docks."
"Goodnight, Mr. Tommy," Abby said, slamming the oak door shut and throwing the heavy deadbolt into place.
She leaned her back against the wood, her lungs gasping for air, her knees shaking so violently she nearly slid to the floor. She waited until the footsteps vanished up the corridor before walking back into the living room.
Declan was watching her from the couch.
He wasn't looking at her like a maid. He was looking at her like she was a phantom—a miracle draped in cheap gray cotton.
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"You lied to my brother's face," Declan murmured, his voice trembling with an emotion he couldn't hide. "You threatened a armed soldier."
Abby pulled the gun from her pocket and set it down hard on the wooden table. "I told you, Declan. I've got you. Now shut up so I can sew your ribs back together."
