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I was getting stitched up—twenty-two bullet-torn stitches, no anesthesia— when the news broke that Oliver Keith had proposed. Not to me. To her. Leslie Wells. The perfect princess with perfect timing. It wasn’t the first time he chose someone else. Not the first time he left me bleeding while he played hero for another woman. But it was the last time I let it break me. He came back later, full of apologies and regret. Said he loved me. Said he'd give it all up if I just said the word. But by then, I wasn’t the girl who waited for him to choose me anymore. I was Andrea Duncan—reborn in betrayal, crowned in blood, and building an empire without him. And Oliver? He could only stand outside my kingdom and remember what it felt like to be loved by a queen. Chapter 1 The safe house smelled like gunpowder and sweat. Andrea Duncan fastened her bra, her fingers still trembling from the adrenaline rush. Three million in cash, twenty kilos moved—another win for the Duncan family. "That was intense," she breathed, watching Oliver Keith scroll through his phone, his bare chest still glistening. "The Italians didn't even see it coming." Oliver's eyes flicked up, taking in her half-dressed state with appreciation before his expression shifted. "Speaking of surprises... I need you tomorrow night. My parents arranged a dinner. They want me to meet someone." Andrea's hands froze on her shirt buttons. "Meet someone?" "Leslie Wells. She's back from Paris." He pulled on his pants, casual as ever. "I need you there to keep things smooth when conversation dies." Her stomach dropped. "You're being set up? Then what am I to you?" Oliver was already buttoning his shirt, not even looking at her. "You know what you are, Andy. My right hand at deals, my drinking partner, and..." he smirked, his eyes finally meeting hers, "the best stress relief a man could ask for." The words hit harder than any punch. Andrea's lip trembled as five years of memories crashed down on her. Seeing her expression, Oliver's smile faded. He stepped closer, using that low, intimate voice. "Come on, Andy. You didn't actually think this was... real? That we were together?" "Of course not," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I need to clean up." She locked herself in the bathroom and slid down against the door, pressing her palms against her eyes to stop the tears. Five years. They'd grown up together on Chicago's North Side, two crime family kids who did everything together. Their first kiss happened right here after a successful weapons deal, high on adrenaline and whiskey. She'd been nineteen, pressed against these walls while Oliver whispered things that made her blush even now. One night became a hundred. They were explosive together—neighbors in their building had complained more than once. During the day, they played couple at every family event. Her phone was full of his late-night messages from Miami, Detroit, Vegas. Sweet words typed between bloody business. She'd been so sure they were together, just keeping it quiet until their families were ready for the merger. But now Oliver was telling her she was just convenient entertainment? The shower ran cold before she finally emerged. Oliver sat on the leather couch, still on his phone. "Make sure the private room at The Drake is perfect. She likes French cuisine, so bring in that chef from Chicago Cut. Pink and white roses—fill the whole damn room. And have my tailor ready with new suits. Leslie always loved me in black." Leslie. The princess of the Wells family, Chicago's third-biggest crime syndicate. Andrea remembered her—perfect smile, perfect grades, perfect daughter who left for "art school" in Paris. Oliver had been obsessed, following her around their prep school like a puppy. When Leslie left, Andrea thought she finally had her chance. That Oliver's attention had shifted to her. What a joke. Her phone crashed to the floor. Oliver glanced over, completely casual. "You good? Lock up when you leave. Cleaner's already paid." He grabbed his jacket, heading for the door. At the threshold, he turned back with that insufferable smirk. "Andy, you've always been one of the guys to me. Don't get all emotional now—makes me think you've been reading this wrong." His voice dropped lower, crueler. "We know each other inside and out. Every secret, every scar, every way to make each other scream. If we tried dating for real? We'd be bored in a week. Some things are better kept... uncomplicated." The door clicked shut behind him. Andrea sat on the rumpled sheets where they'd spent countless nights, and laughed. Bitter, broken laughter that turned to tears. So that's all she was. Oliver Keith's favorite toy. His go-to girl when he needed release after a bloody night. She didn't leave until sunrise, walking through Chicago's empty streets in the rain, designer heels clicking on wet pavement. Her parents were waiting when she stumbled through the Duncan mansion's door, soaked and shaking. "Andrea! Why didn't you call the driver?" She looked at them with hollow eyes. "That expansion to Barcelona you keep pushing? I'm in. Let's go and never look back." Her parents exchanged shocked looks. They'd been trying to convince her for months. "Are you sure? What about Oliver—" "There is no Oliver and me. Never was. I just told you that so you'd stop trying to set me up with the Rossi boy." That night, she filled garbage bags with everything Oliver had ever given her. The Cartier watch for her twenty-first birthday. The Prada dresses from their Vegas trips. The leather jacket that smelled like his cologne. All of it went in the trash. Andrea Duncan was done being anyone's dirty little secret. Chapter 2 The private room at Gibson's Steakhouse was suffocating. Andrea sat across from Oliver and Leslie, watching them laugh over imported wine. The most powerful crime families in Chicago, playing house over filet mignon. Leslie Wells looked exactly like Andrea remembered—perfect blonde hair, perfect smile, perfect daughter of the Wells empire. Five years in Paris had only polished her shine. "It's such a coincidence," Leslie purred, touching Oliver's arm. "In high school, you were always everywhere I went. Must have been fate." Andrea watched Oliver's ears turn red. She knew the truth—he'd stalked Leslie's schedule, "accidentally" showing up wherever she was. Andrea had been his shadow then, watching him chase his dream girl. "I heard you two are practically family," Leslie said, her green eyes studying Andrea. "Childhood friends, right?" Before Andrea could answer, Oliver's mother jumped in. "Oh yes! These two have been inseparable since diapers. We used to joke about arranging their marriage—" "Mom." Oliver's voice was sharp. He threw an arm around Andrea's shoulders, brotherly and dismissive. "Andy and I would never work like that. Right?" "Right," Andrea agreed, her smile razor-sharp. "I'd rather date a cop than Oliver." His arm tensed before dropping away. The conversation turned to business—territories, shipments, the Europeans Leslie had connected with. Andrea excused herself to the bathroom, needing air. In the mirror, she looked pale. Tired. She splashed cold water on her face, thinking about her parents' offer. Barcelona. New territory. Far from Oliver Keith and his perfect princess. When she returned, Oliver and Leslie were sharing dessert, feeding each other bites of chocolate cake like a movie scene. "Andrea," her father called from the main table. "Come sit. We're discussing the European expansion." She gladly escaped to her parents' side, listening to their plans. New routes through Spain. Clean money through art galleries. A fresh start. "We'd need someone there full-time," her mother said carefully. "Someone who knows the business but can handle being away from... Chicago." Andrea met her parents' knowing looks. They understood more than she'd realized. "I'll go," she said firmly. "Three months to set up operations. Then permanent relocation if it works." Across the room, Oliver's head snapped up. She ignored him. After dinner, the families walked to their cars together. Oliver caught Andrea's wrist in the parking lot. "Europe? When were you going to tell me?" She yanked free. "Why would I? We're not together, remember? I'm just your stress relief." "Andy—" "My name is Andrea." She stepped back. "And you should focus on your fiancée. She's waiting." Leslie stood by Oliver's Bentley, designer coat wrapped tight, watching them with calculating eyes. Andrea turned away, joining her parents in their armored SUV. Through the bulletproof glass, she watched Oliver help Leslie into his car, playing the perfect gentleman. "Barcelona will be good for you," her mother said softly. Andrea nodded, already thinking about plane tickets and new beginnings. Anything to get away from Oliver Keith and the mess she'd made of her heart. Chapter 3 Three nights later, Andrea found herself in Oliver's Bentley, heading to a warehouse in Cicero. A major deal with the Mexicans—too important for personal drama. Leslie sat between them in the back, nervously clutching her designer purse. Her first real taste of the family business. "Why did I have to come?" Leslie whispered to Oliver. "You want to marry into this life? You need to see it." His voice was cold, professional. This was Oliver the soldier, not the lovesick boy. Andrea checked her Glock, movements automatic after years of practice. She caught Oliver watching her in the mirror and looked away. The warehouse was too quiet. Andrea's instincts screamed danger, but the deal was already in motion. Five million in heroin, enough to supply half of Chicago. They were walking back to the car when the shots started. "Ambush!" Andrea yelled, drawing her weapon. Glass shattered around them as rival soldiers opened fire. Oliver threw himself over Leslie, dragging her behind a concrete barrier. Andrea dove the opposite direction, returning fire. A bullet grazed her shoulder, tearing through leather and flesh. "Where's our backup?" she shouted, dropping two shooters. "Five minutes out!" Oliver yelled back. He had Leslie pressed against the ground, his body shielding every inch of her. Andrea counted muzzle flashes. Six, maybe seven shooters. She was pinned down, blood soaking her jacket. Her clip ran empty. "Oliver! Need cover!" But when she looked, he was already moving—half-carrying Leslie to their armored car, leaving Andrea behind enemy lines. A rival soldier rounded her barrier. Andrea grabbed a piece of rebar, swinging hard. His skull cracked, blood spraying across concrete. By the time Duncan soldiers arrived, Andrea had killed three men with her bare hands. She stood in the warehouse lights, covered in blood that wasn't all hers, watching Oliver's taillights disappear. Her father found her at the Duncan family's private clinic, getting stitched up without anesthesia. She hadn't said a word since the ambush. "Twenty-two stitches," he said quietly. "Could have been worse." "He left me." Her voice was flat. "Bullets flying, and he picked her." "I know, baby. I know." Andrea stared at the ceiling, decision made. "Book me a flight to Barcelona. One way." Her father squeezed her uninjured shoulder. "Consider it done." Chapter 4 The Duncan family's private hospital smelled like bleach and blood. Andrea lay in her bed, shoulder throbbing despite the morphine drip. Twenty-two stitches held her together where the bullet had torn through. "You hear the news?" Maria, her nurse and her father's cousin, checked the IV bag. "Oliver Keith went on a rampage last night." Andrea kept her eyes closed. "Don't care." "Killed seven Colombians. The ones who ordered the ambush." Maria lowered her voice. "Said they touched something that belonged to him." Andrea's eyes snapped open. "Leslie?" "Who else? Princess got a scratch on her precious hand. Oliver lost his mind." Maria shook her head. "Never seen him like that. Even brought in the Torelli brothers to help clean house." The Torelli brothers were expensive. Psychotic, but expensive. Oliver only used them for messages written in blood. "Good for him," Andrea said flatly. "True love and all that." Maria gave her a long look. "Honey, everyone knows you and Oliver—" "There is no me and Oliver." Andrea hit the call button. "I need more pain meds." "You just had—" "I need more." But the drugs couldn't touch the real pain. The knowledge that Oliver had started a war for a scratch on Leslie's hand while Andrea bled out in a warehouse. Dr. Martinez arrived to check her wounds. "Surgery in an hour. Need to make sure there's no nerve damage." "Whatever." Andrea stared at the ceiling. "Just knock me out." They wheeled her through the private corridors, past rooms full of recovering soldiers and victims of the life. Through the windows, she glimpsed the hospital's garden—a peaceful spot for families to pretend their loved ones weren't dying from bullet wounds. "Hold up," someone called. "Mr. Keith wants the garden for an hour." Andrea's gurney stopped. Through the glass, she had a perfect view of what came next. Oliver stood among the roses, looking like something out of a magazine in his black suit. Leslie sat on a bench, her bandaged hand delicately placed in her lap. The setting sun painted everything gold. "No," Andrea whispered. "No, no, no." But she couldn't look away. Oliver dropped to one knee, pulling out a box. Even from here, Andrea could see the ring—massive, flawless, worth more than most people's houses. "Leslie Wells," Oliver's voice carried through the glass. "Five years ago, you left before I could tell you how I felt. I won't make that mistake again." Andrea's heart shattered with each word. "Last night, when those animals tried to hurt you, I realized something. I'd burn this whole city down to keep you safe. I'd take every territory from here to Detroit. Make Chicago ours." Leslie gasped, playing the perfect surprised princess. "I'm not just offering you a ring," Oliver continued. "I'm offering you an empire. Every crew, every corner, every dollar that flows through this city. Marry me, and I'll lay Chicago at your feet." "Yes!" Leslie threw herself into his arms. "Yes, Oliver, yes!" They kissed among the roses while Andrea watched, frozen on her gurney. The nurses around her whispered excitedly—a Keith-Wells union would change everything. "Can we move?" Andrea asked, voice raw. "Please?" But Oliver was sliding the ring onto Leslie's finger, and Leslie was crying pretty tears, and somewhere in Andrea's chest, something died. "Beautiful," Maria murmured. "Like a fairytale." Andrea laughed, high and broken. "Yeah. Beautiful." They finally wheeled her away, but the image burned behind her eyelids. Oliver on his knees for another woman. Oliver promising the empire they'd built together to someone else. In the operating room, as they placed the mask over her face, Andrea made a decision. "Tell my father," she mumbled as the anesthesia took hold. "Tell him I'm ready for Barcelona. Tell him..." But the drugs pulled her under before she could finish. Her last thought was of Oliver's voice, promising Leslie the world. The same world where Andrea bled alone in warehouses, forgotten the moment a prettier prize appeared. When she woke, she'd be different. Harder. Colder. The Andrea who loved Oliver Keith would die on this operating table. What remained would be something else entirely. Something that didn't break. Something that didn't feel. Something that survived. Chapter 5 "Why am I here, Oliver?" Andrea stood in the middle of Hermès on Michigan Avenue, watching him inspect handbags with unusual interest. "Need your opinion." He held up a pink Birkin. "Leslie loves these things." It had been two weeks since the hospital. Two weeks since watching him propose to another woman. The stitches were out, but the scar remained—inside and out. "Get the black one," Andrea said flatly. "More practical." Oliver's mouth quirked. "Always thinking ahead." They moved through Chicago's Gold Coast like old times—Cartier, Chanel, Prada. But Andrea wasn't naive. She recognized the patterns. Jewelry boxes with hidden compartments. Handbags with reinforced bottoms. Designer luggage that would sail through customs uninspected. "You're using Wells connections to expand into Europe," she said as they waited for another purchase to be wrapped. "Smart girl." Oliver didn't deny it. "Which brings me to why you're really here." Andrea's stomach dropped. "No." "The Duncan routes through Montreal. I need them." "Absolutely not." Oliver stepped closer, voice dropping. "Barcelona, three years ago. Your grandfather was cornered in that warehouse. The Russians had him surrounded." Andrea's hands clenched. She knew where this was going. "I took a hit getting him out," Oliver continued, touching his side where the scar was. "Lost two of my best men. Your grandfather promised me three wishes for saving his life." "That debt was between you and him—" "First wish: you teaching me the Duncan supply routes. Used that already." Oliver counted on his fingers. "Second: you coming with me to that Detroit deal last year. Nearly got us both ended, but we made millions." Andrea remembered. A violent negotiation that ended with them controlling the entire Eastern corridor. "This is number three," Oliver said simply. "My birthday party next week. You'll be there. You'll smile. You'll make nice with the Wells family and help smooth over any concerns about our alliance." "My grandfather's gone. His promises went with him." "Did they?" Oliver pulled out his phone, playing a voice recording. Her grandfather's distinctive rasp filled the boutique. "I, Antonio Duncan, swear on my family's honor. Three wishes to Oliver Keith, whatever he asks, whenever he asks. This I promise for my life." Andrea recognized the words. Old country promises. The kind that bound families for generations. "You recorded him?" "Insurance." Oliver pocketed the phone. "Your family's all about honor, right? What would your father say if he knew you broke Antonio's last promise?" The store clerk returned with their packages. Oliver handed over a black card, buying fifty thousand in merchandise without blinking. "Besides," he continued as they walked out, "it's just one night. Show up, congratulate us on our engagement, then you can run to Spain and forget all about Chicago." They hit three more stores. At each one, Oliver selected items that served dual purposes. A watch with a hidden cavity. Designer trunks with false bottoms. Everything Leslie would need to be the perfect smuggler's wife. "She knows what you're planning?" Andrea asked as they loaded boxes into his Bentley. "She thinks we're expanding the family business." Oliver's smile was cold. "Which we are. The Wells own judges from here to Miami. We own the streets. Together..." "You'll own everything." "Now you're getting it." He started the car. "One more thing. Leslie's been asking questions about us. Our history." "Tell her the truth. We had a thing. It meant nothing. End of story." Oliver's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "That's exactly what I told her." He drove her back to her penthouse in silence. As she moved to get out, he caught her wrist. "Next Saturday. The Drake Hotel. Nine sharp." Andrea looked at where he touched her. Once, that hand had known every inch of her. Now it felt like a stranger's. "After this, we're done. No more wishes. No more favors." "After this," Oliver agreed, "you'll never have to see me again." She pulled free, grabbing the packages he'd bought—all of them needing Duncan specialists to add special modifications before delivery. "Andy." His voice stopped her. "Wear the silver dress. The one from New Year's." "That dress is ruined now." "Then wear something else nice. Leslie wants photos for her Instagram." Andrea closed the door firmly behind her. In her apartment, she called her father. "The Keith party next week. I have to go." "What's he holding over you?" "Grandfather's last wish." The words tasted bitter. "The third one." A long pause. Then: "Antonio always did like that boy too much. I'll have the jet ready. The moment you're done—" "I'm gone. Barcelona can't come fast enough." Andrea poured herself a drink, staring out at the Chicago skyline. One more week. One more performance. One last favor for a dead man's promise. Then she'd vanish into Barcelona's shadows, leaving Oliver Keith to build his empire on someone else's foundation. Chapter 6 The Drake Hotel ballroom glittered with Chicago's deadliest dressed in their finest. Andrea entered through the side door, wearing a black Versace gown that covered her shoulder scar. Her Glock 19 rested against her thigh, hidden by designer fabric. "Andrea!" Oliver's mother, Eleanor, swooped in for air kisses. "You look beautiful. Oliver said you might not come." "Couldn't miss his birthday." Andrea's smile felt painted on. The room was packed with crime royalty. The Torrelli brothers held court near the bar. The Rossis clustered by the windows. Every major family represented, all here to kiss the ring of the Keith-Wells alliance. Andrea spotted Oliver near the stage, Leslie attached to his arm like a designer accessory. The pink Birkin bag hung from her elbow—the one Andrea had picked out for drug runs disguised as shopping trips. "Ladies and gentlemen!" Oliver's father took the microphone. "Thank you for joining us on this special night." Andrea accepted champagne from a passing waiter, already knowing what came next. "We're here not just for my son's birthday," the elder Keith continued, "but to announce a union that will change Chicago forever." The crowd murmured excitedly. Andrea drained her glass. Oliver took the stage, Leslie beside him in a white dress that probably cost more than most people's cars. He looked powerful up there. Untouchable. Nothing like the boy who'd held her hair during her first hangover. "The Wells and Keith families are officially joining forces," Oliver announced. "Leslie has agreed to be my wife." Thunder erupted—applause, cheers, the sound of an empire being born. Andrea watched Leslie flash her ring, the same one from the hospital garden. That's when she smelled it. C4. "Bomb!" Andrea shouted, but her voice drowned in celebration noise. The explosion ripped through the north wall. Plaster rained down as guests screamed, diving for cover. The lights went out, emergency systems kicking in. A second blast hit the bar. Bottles exploded in sheets of alcohol and flame. In the chaos, Andrea saw Oliver moving—not randomly, but with purpose. He tackled Leslie, covering her body with his as debris fell like deadly snow. Andrea dove behind an overturned table as gunfire erupted. Muzzle flashes in the dark. Someone was using the bombing as cover for a hit. She pulled her Glock, muscle memory taking over. Two shooters by the kitchen doors. Another near the stage. They wore masks, but she recognized the movement—Colombians, here for revenge. Andrea dropped the kitchen shooters with clean headshots. The third swung toward her, spraying bullets. She rolled left, feeling heat as rounds chewed up the floor where she'd been. Then something hit her from above. A massive chandelier, loosened by the explosions, crashed down. The edge caught her ribs, driving her to the ground. Pain exploded through her chest. Through tears and plaster dust, she saw Oliver hustling Leslie toward the exit. His security formed a protective diamond around them. He never looked back. Andrea struggled to breathe, ribs screaming. The remaining shooter approached, rifle raised. She fumbled for her gun, knocked somewhere in the fall. A shot rang out. The shooter dropped. Tony Duncan, her cousin, materialized from the smoke. "Jesus, Andy. You okay?" "Get me out," she gasped. Tony hauled her up, half-carrying her through the ruined ballroom. Bodies everywhere. The Torrelli brothers down. Judge Martinez's wife bleeding out by the windows. In the parking lot, ambulances wailed. Tony loaded her into their armored SUV as cops swarmed the scene. "Oliver?" she asked, hating herself for caring. "Gone. Got his princess out first thing." Tony's voice was bitter. "Left everyone else to die." Andrea laughed, tasting blood. "Of course he did." At Duncan Medical, X-rays showed three cracked ribs. Lucky, the doctor said. Could have punctured a lung. Andrea stared at the ceiling, counting water stains. Twice now. Twice Oliver had chosen Leslie while Andrea bled. Her phone buzzed. Unknown number. "You okay?" Oliver's voice. She hung up and threw the phone against the wall, watching it shatter. Some lessons you only needed to learn twice. Chapter 7 The Tunnel was Chicago's worst-kept secret—an underground club where made men went to drink and deal. Andrea's farewell party was in full swing, the bass shaking bottles behind the bar. "To Barcelona!" Her cousin Tony raised his shot glass. "May Spanish men appreciate what Chicago threw away." The crowd roared approval. Andrea smiled, playing the part. Tomorrow, she'd be gone. Tonight, she was still Duncan royalty. She excused herself to the bathroom, ribs still aching from the Drake Hotel incident. Three weeks had passed. The Colombians were all finished, Oliver's retaliation swift and brutal. The Keith-Wells engagement was the talk of the underworld. Coming back, Andrea took a wrong turn in the dimly lit corridors. Voices drifted from a private room, the door slightly cracked. "—can't believe you're marrying that ice queen." She recognized the voice. Marcus Keith, Oliver's younger brother. "Watch your mouth." Oliver's growl made her freeze. "I'm just saying, Andrea's worth ten of her. You know it, I know it, hell, all Chicago knows it." Andrea pressed against the wall, heart hammering. "Andrea was convenient," Oliver said, each word clear and cutting. "A useful piece on the board. Good in bed, better in a fight. But Leslie? She's the key to everything." "You loved Andy—" "I loved what she could do for me." Oliver's laugh was ugly. "But you don't build an empire on feelings, little brother. The Wells have European connections we need. Andrea's just another soldier. Replaceable." "That's cold, even for you." "That's reality. Andrea served her purpose. Kept me company while Leslie was gone. Now?" A pause. Andrea heard him lighting a cigarette. "Now she's a loose end heading to Spain. Perfect solution." "And if she heard you talking like this?" "She'd what? Cry? Run to daddy?" Another harsh laugh. "She's been wrapped around my finger since we were kids. A Duncan princess who thought sharing my bed meant something. Pathetic." Andrea's vision blurred. She bit her hand to keep from making a sound. "The best part?" Oliver continued. "She actually thought I'd choose her over Leslie. Like I'd throw away an empire for some girl who already gave me everything for free." "Jesus, Oliver." "What? It's true. Why buy the cow when the milk was free? Leslie understands her worth. Makes me work for it. Andrea just... gave it all away. Desperate for any scrap of attention I threw her." The voices faded as they moved deeper into the room. Andrea stumbled away, Oliver's words echoing in her skull. Useful piece. Replaceable. Pathetic. She made it to the alley before losing her dinner, champagne burning her throat. Her hands shook as she called her driver. "Miss Duncan? The party—" "Get me out. Now." Back at her penthouse, Andrea destroyed everything with methodical precision. Photos from their trip to Vegas—the shredder. His clothes left in her closet—the incinerator. The necklace he'd given her for her twenty-first—down the garbage disposal. By dawn, every trace of Oliver Keith was gone from her life. Her phone rang. Her father. "Jet's ready. We moved up the timeline." "Why?" "Word is Oliver's planning something. Using our routes to move product without cutting us in. Can't have you here when it goes down." Andrea laughed, brittle and sharp. "Let him. I'm done being a useful piece on anyone's board." "Baby—" "One hour. I'll be at O'Hare." She hung up, looking around her empty apartment one last time. Five years of memories, reduced to ash. Andrea Duncan was leaving Chicago. What emerged in Barcelona would be something else entirely. Something without mercy. Something without weakness. Something that would never again mistake physical intimacy for love. Chapter 8 Andrea left The Tunnel at 3 AM, head still spinning from Oliver's words. The valet brought her BMW around, but something felt wrong. The street was too quiet, even for this hour. "Miss Duncan?" A man approached from the shadows, dressed in torn clothes, reeking of cheap whiskey. "Spare some change?" Her hand moved to her concealed Glock. Three more "homeless" men emerged, surrounding her car. Their eyes were too clear, movements too coordinated. "Leslie sends her regards," the first one whispered, lunging forward. Andrea rolled left, glass shattering where her head had been. She swept his legs, driving her heel into his throat. The second attacker grabbed her from behind. She threw her head back, feeling his nose crunch, then spun and put two rounds center mass. The third man had a knife. Andrea caught his wrist, twisted until bones snapped, then used his own blade to finish it. The fourth tried to run. Her shot dropped him at twenty yards. Four bodies. Four witnesses to Leslie Wells' jealousy. Andrea's hands shook as she called her cleanup crew. This wasn't random. This was a message. Thirty minutes later, she stood in Leslie's penthouse, blood still on her designer dress. Leslie sat on her white couch, playing shocked. "Andrea! What are you doing here?" "Cut the act." Andrea's voice was ice. "Your boys are being scraped off Wacker Drive." Leslie's mask slipped, revealing the snake beneath. "I don't know what—" "Four men. Your father's old soldiers. Did you really think I wouldn't recognize them?" "Prove it." Leslie stood, chin raised. "Go ahead. Tell Oliver I hired men to remove his little toy. See who he believes." Andrea stepped closer. Leslie stumbled backward—right into her own coffee table. The sharp corner caught her temple as she fell, blood flowing dramatically. "Help!" Leslie screamed. "She's trying to kill me!" The penthouse door burst open. Oliver rushed in, taking in the scene—Andrea standing over a bleeding Leslie. "She attacked me!" Leslie sobbed, crawling to Oliver. "She said I stole you, that she'd kill me before the wedding!" Oliver's face went dark with rage. He positioned himself between them, hand on his weapon. "Andy. Step back." "She hired men to kill me tonight. This is theater—" "STEP BACK!" Andrea had never heard that tone from him. Pure violence, barely controlled. "Four bodies on Wacker Drive," she said quietly. "Your girlfriend's cleaning crew. Check the surveillance—" "Get out." Oliver's voice was deadly. "Get out of Chicago tonight, or I'll handle you myself." "Oliver, listen—" He drew his Sig Sauer, pointing it at her face. "You have six hours. If I see you after sunrise, if you come near Leslie again, I'll put you in the ground myself. Duncan or not." Andrea stared down the barrel of the gun held by the man she'd loved for five years. His hand was steady. His eyes were cold. "Ollie," Leslie whimpered, playing up her injury. "I'm scared." "It's okay, baby." He didn't lower the gun. "She's leaving. Forever." Andrea backed toward the door, hands visible. "When you find out the truth—" "The only truth is you're jealous and dangerous. Should've seen it coming." His finger moved to the trigger. "Five hours, fifty-eight minutes." Andrea left without another word. In the elevator, she called her father. "Pack everything. We leave tonight." "What happened?" "Oliver Keith just declared war." Chapter 9 The Duncan mansion was chaos. Men loading trucks, shredding documents, erasing twenty years of Chicago history in hours. Andrea moved through it like a ghost, Oliver's gun still imprinted in her memory. "Transport leaves in thirty," her father said, burning files in the fireplace. "Your mother's already at the airport." Andrea nodded, packing her grandfather's journals. Everything else could burn. Her phone buzzed. Their inner circle was gathering at Rossi's restaurant for an emergency farewell. The underworld had rules—even in exile, respect must be paid. The private room was packed. The Rossis, the Torellis, even Judge Martinez. Everyone except the Keiths. "This is unexpected," old man Rossi said carefully. "The Duncan family leaving Chicago... it changes everything." "Oliver Keith changes everything," Andrea's father replied. "We won't stay where we're not valued." Knowing looks were exchanged. Everyone had heard about Andrea and Oliv