Chapter 1 - THE NAME HE FINALLY GAVE HER
“Seven days.”
The stranger repeated the number as though Marin had told him seven years.
His pale gray eyes moved slowly around the abandoned wine room.
Dust.
Empty racks.
Folded tablecloths.
A plastic water bottle.
Then they returned to Marin.
“You kept me here for seven days?”
“You were bleeding on my kitchen floor.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It answers enough.”
For the first time, something shifted in his face.
Not anger.
Almost amusement.
He looked terrible.
His beard had grown unevenly. His lips were cracked. The black shirt beneath the bandages was stiff with dried blood and sweat.
Still, sitting on the floor half-dead, he somehow managed to look like the most dangerous person Marin had ever seen.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Marin.”
“Last name.”
“Callaway.”
His expression changed.
Tiny.
Enough.
“You know that name?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Marin crossed her arms.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Most people disagree.”
“Most people are probably scared of you.”
“They should be.”
There.
No modesty.
Then:
“And you?”
Marin thought about the knife.
The gun beneath the flour bin.
The wound.
The fever.
The strange cold that had moved through his body into her hands.
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised by the honesty.
Then:
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Fear keeps stupid people alive.”
Marin almost laughed.
“You don’t know many poor people, do you?”
His mouth twitched.
Then he looked down at the bandage.
“You did this?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knows I’m here?”
“No one.”
His gaze snapped toward her.
“No one?”
“No.”
“What did you tell hotel staff?”
“That I had stomach problems.”
Now he actually smiled.
Very faintly.
“You hid a dying man in a wine room by claiming indigestion.”
“It worked.”
Then he became serious.
“Where is my gun?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“Not telling you.”
That earned a long stare.
Then he said:
“My name is Asa Thornton.”
Marin stopped breathing.
Everyone in Chicago knew that name.
Not openly.
Not in newspapers.
But in kitchens.
Bars.
Warehouses.
Back rooms.
People knew.
Asa Thornton.
Head of one of the three criminal organizations controlling much of the South Side’s underground logistics.
Missing for more than a week.
Rumored dead.
Marin stared.
“You’re Asa Thornton.”
“Yes.”
“I hid Asa Thornton behind old wine racks.”
“Yes.”
“You could have mentioned that sooner.”
“I was unconscious.”
Fair.
Then Marin said:
“People think you’re dead.”
“I know.”
“How?”
His eyes hardened.
“Because the people who tried to kill me needed them to.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Literally.
Marin saw his hands begin trembling again.
Not fear.
Cold.
Asa clenched his fists.
“Damn it.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His teeth started chattering.
Marin moved closer.
“No.”
Asa lifted one hand.
“Stay back.”
His face had gone pale.
The unnatural cold was returning.
“Marin.”
His voice changed.
Weak.
“Do not touch me.”
She ignored him.
The moment her palm pressed against his wrist, the same strange sensation moved through her.
Cold entered.
Warmth answered.
Deep inside her chest, that sleeping flame seemed to wake.
Asa gasped.
His shaking slowed.
They both stared at their joined hands.
Marin whispered:
“What is happening?”
Asa’s expression changed from pain to horror.
Not at himself.
At her.
Then he said:
“Your mother’s name.”
“What?”
“Tell me.”
“Lena Callaway.”
Asa closed his eyes.
“God.”
Marin’s heartbeat accelerated.
“You knew her?”
“No.”
He opened his eyes.
“But my father did.”
May you like
And before Marin could ask another question, Asa whispered:
“Your mother was supposed to be dead before you were born.”
