The screech of the heart monitor sliced through the sterile air of Room 347 like a jagged blade.
“Code Blue! Room 347, Code Blue!” Dr. Lawson’s voice lost its clinical chill, exploding into sharp authority as she shoved me back. Medical staff flooded the room, a blur of scrubs, metal trays, and panic.
“Her blood pressure is plummeting! Get the crash cart! Push two milligrams of epinephrine—now!”
I was forced into the hallway, my back slamming against the cold wall. Through the glass window, I watched the woman who held my entire fractured soul inside her chest convulse. Her head rolled back, her pale throat exposed beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
“Hannah,” I whispered, my voice sounding like gravel grinding in a gears.
Beside me, Ryan didn’t move. He stood like a stone monolith, his hand still holding the plastic bag containing Hannah’s shattered phone. The glowing text on the screen seemed to burn right through the plastic: Stay away from him, Hannah. You and the baby were warned.
Julian. My half-brother. The black sheep I thought I had buried under five feet of concrete and legal restraining orders two years ago in Chicago. The monster who had spent his entire life trying to bleed me dry of every dime, every dock, every piece of territory I conquered.
I hadn’t just failed to protect her by pushing her away. I had handed him a map straight to her heart.
“Jack,” Ryan’s voice was a low, lethal vibration near my ear. “Julian’s crew was spotted at the old Pier 42 three nights ago. I thought it was just low-level smuggling. I didn’t think…”
