“He Broke My Ribs”—She Texted The Wrong Number—Mafia Boss Replied: “I’m On My Way”

A wrong number usually ends with an awkward apology. For Evelyn Vance, it ended with a war. Trapped in a locked bathroom with broken ribs, hiding from a violent detective who swore to kill her, she tried to text her brother for help. Her hands were shaking too hard. She mistyped one digit.

That message didn’t go to her brother. It went to the personal burner phone of Lucas Moretti, Chicago’s most elusive and ruthless crime lord. A number that hadn’t received a text in 3 years. What happens when a desperate victim accidentally summons the devil himself? The answer is bloody, heartbreaking, and terrifying. This is the story of “He Broke My Ribs.”

The sound of a human rib snapping is distinct. It isn’t a clean crack like a dry twig. It is a wet, muffled pop that vibrates through the entire torso. Evelyn Vance heard that sound before she felt the pain. Then the air left her lungs in a violent rush, replaced by a white-hot agony that radiated from her left side.

She crumbled to the linoleum floor of the kitchen, gasping, her vision swimming with black spots. “Look what you made me do,” Marcus said. His voice was calm. That was the worst part about Marcus Thorne. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scream like the abusers in the movies. He was a detective with the Chicago PD, a man who knew exactly how to inflict pain without leaving visible marks.

Tonight he had lost control. Evelyn clutched her side, unable to speak. Every shallow breath felt like a knife twisting in her chest. She looked up at him. He was adjusting his cufflinks, staring down at her with a look of mild disappointment, as if she were a stain on his carpet rather than his fiancée of 2 years.

“I have to go to the precinct,” Marcus said, stepping over her legs. “Clean this up. And if you’re not in bed when I get back, Evelyn, we’ll have to finish this conversation.” He grabbed his keys off the counter and walked out. The heavy oak door slammed shut, the deadbolt sliding home with a finality that made Evelyn flinch. She waited 3 minutes.

She counted them by the thumping of her own terrified heart. When she was sure he was gone, she dragged herself across the floor. The pain was blinding. She knew medically what was wrong. She was a nurse. She knew the symptoms of a pneumothorax or a flail chest. She needed a hospital, but she couldn’t go to one.

Marcus had friends in every ER in the city. They would call him. They always called him. She needed Liam, her brother. He was the only one who didn’t buy Marcus’s perfect cop act. Evelyn crawled toward the hallway bathroom, the only room with a lock that Marcus hadn’t broken yet. She dragged her purse with her.

Once inside, she locked the door and wedged her body against the vanity, trembling violently. She fished her phone out of her bag. The screen was cracked from where Marcus had knocked it out of her hand yesterday, but it lit up. 11:42 p.m. She opened her messages. Her vision was blurring from shock.

She tried to type Liam’s number from memory. She had deleted his contact info because Marcus checked her phone every night. 312-555. Her thumb slipped on the slick glass smeared with a drop of blood from her lip. She hit 0119 instead of 0198. She didn’t notice. She just needed someone to know she was dying. To unknown: “He broke my ribs. I can’t breathe. He locked me in. Please help. 224 Oak St. Apt 4B. The code is 8890.” She hit send.

The phone slipped from her hand, clattering onto the tiles. Evelyn leaned her head back against the cabinet, tears leaking from her eyes. The pain was becoming a dull, heavy weight, dragging her down into darkness. She closed her eyes, praying Liam was awake, praying he was close. Buzz.

The phone vibrated against her leg. She jolted, a fresh wave of agony ripping through her side. She grabbed the phone. From unknown: “Who is this?” Evelyn frowned. Liam, why was he asking who this was? Maybe he didn’t have her number saved since she got the new burner phone last week. To unknown: “It’s Evelyn. Liam, please. I think my lung is punctured. Marcus did it. He’s coming back.”

She stared at the three dots dancing on the screen. They appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again. For a terrifying minute, there was nothing. Had she texted the wrong person? Was this a stranger who would just ignore a wrong number and go back to sleep? Then the phone buzzed again.

A single sentence from unknown: “I’m on my way.” Evelyn let out a sob of relief. It wasn’t Liam’s way of speaking. Liam would be panicking, typing in all caps. But maybe the shock had made him serious. She waited. 10 minutes passed, then 20. The pain was getting worse. Her breathing was becoming shallow, rapid little gasps. The room was spinning.

Suddenly, the silence of the apartment was shattered. Crash. It wasn’t a knock. It sounded like the front door had been taken off its hinges. Evelyn froze. Had Marcus come back? Had he forgotten something? If he found her texting, he would kill her. Tonight would be the night she became a statistic.

She heard heavy footsteps. Not one person. Many. The sound of boots on hardwood moving with military precision. “Check the bedroom,” a deep, unfamiliar voice commanded. It was a voice like grinding gravel, low, authoritative, and terrifying. “Clear the perimeter. If anyone comes near this floor, put them down.” Evelyn stopped breathing.

That wasn’t Marcus, and it definitely wasn’t Liam. The footsteps approached the bathroom. Evelyn curled into a ball, clutching her knees to her chest. Despite the screaming pain in her ribs, she held her breath. The doorknob jiggled. “Locked.” “She’s in here,” a voice said from the other side. “Step aside,” the deep voice commanded.

Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut. “Please let it be quick.” The door didn’t just open. It exploded inward with a single powerful kick. Wood splinters rained down on Evelyn. She screamed, throwing her hands up to protect her face. Silence fell over the small bathroom. Slowly, Evelyn lowered her hands. Standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he had been carved out of shadows.

He was tall, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that cost more than her entire apartment. His dark hair was swept back and his eyes, cold, hard, and terrifyingly dark, were fixed on her. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t a paramedic. He was Lucas Moretti. Evelyn knew his face. Everyone in Chicago knew his face, though usually only from blurry paparazzi photos or mug shots that never led to convictions.

He was the head of the Moretti crime family. The Reaper. He looked down at her, taking in the bruising beginning to bloom on her jaw, the way she held her side, the terror in her eyes. He crouched down, not caring that his expensive trousers touched the dirty bathroom floor. He picked up her phone, which was still lying next to her leg.

He looked at the screen, confirming the text exchange. Then he looked at her. “You’re not Sophia,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried a dangerous edge. “I— I wanted Liam.” Evelyn wheezed, tears streaming down her face. “I texted the wrong number. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”

Lucas stared at her for a long moment. He saw the way she flinched when he moved his hand. He saw the distinct shape of a boot print on her shirt where her ribs were broken. He stood up, towering over her. He turned to the men behind him. Two giants armed with assault rifles that they were barely concealing. “Get Dr. Aris on the line,” Lucas ordered. “Tell him to prep surgery three at the estate.”

“Boss,” one of the men hesitated. “She’s a civilian, and this is—this is cop territory. If we take her—” Lucas turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “She texted that number, Luca. The number that hasn’t rung since the day my sister died. Fate sent her to me.”

He looked back down at Evelyn. “Can you walk?” Evelyn shook her head, sobbing. “It hurts.” Lucas Moretti, the man known for burying his enemies in wet concrete, bent down. With surprising gentleness, he slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. He lifted her up as if she weighed nothing.

Evelyn cried out as the movement jostled her ribs, her head falling against his chest. He smelled of expensive leather, gun oil, and rain. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, stepping over the shattered remains of the bathroom door. “You’re safe now.” As he carried her through the living room, Evelyn saw the front door. It wasn’t just kicked in; it was obliterated.

And standing in the hallway looking stunned and terrified was her neighbor, old Mrs. Higgins. Lucas paused. He looked at Mrs. Higgins. “You didn’t see anything,” Lucas said. It wasn’t a threat. It was a statement of fact. Mrs. Higgins nodded frantically and slammed her door. Lucas carried Evelyn out into the cool night air.

A convoy of three black SUVs was idling in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. He walked toward the middle one. Just as the driver opened the back door, a car screeched around the corner. A police cruiser. It was Marcus. The police cruiser slammed to a halt, its siren chirping once before cutting off. The headlights bathed the black SUVs in a harsh, blinding glare.

Evelyn felt her blood turn to ice. She buried her face in Lucas’s suit jacket, trembling uncontrollably. “It’s him,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s him.” Lucas didn’t flinch. He didn’t even turn around. He simply adjusted his grip on her, ensuring her broken ribs were supported. “Put her in the car,” he said to the driver, his voice devoid of emotion.

“Keep her stabilized. Wait!” Marcus’s voice rang out, filled with the arrogant authority of a man used to getting his way. He slammed his car door and marched toward them, his hand resting on his service weapon. “Step away from the girl. That’s a kidnapping in progress.” Lucas carefully lowered Evelyn onto the plush leather back seat of the SUV.

He looked her in the eyes for a split second. “Stay still.” He closed the door, sealing her inside the bulletproof sanctuary. Then he turned around. Marcus Thorne stopped 10 feet away. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and imposing, but standing next to Lucas Moretti’s security detail, he looked like a mall cop.

When he saw Lucas’s face, his confident stride faltered. “Moretti,” Marcus said, the color draining from his face. He knew the hierarchy of the city. He was a dirty cop, which meant he knew exactly whose payroll the precinct was on. But he also knew Lucas Moretti wasn’t someone you ran into on a Tuesday night. “Detective Thorne.”

Lucas said he knew the name. Lucas knew the name of every cop in his city. The good ones, the bad ones, and the ones that needed to be removed. “This is a domestic dispute,” Marcus said, trying to regain his footing. He flashed his badge, though his hand was shaking slightly. “That woman is my fiancée. She’s unstable. Mental health issues. I was taking her to the hospital myself.”

Lucas took a step forward. His hands were in his pockets. He looked relaxed, which terrified everyone around him. “She has three broken ribs,” Lucas said softly. “Likely a collapsed lung and bruises on her neck consistent with strangulation.” “She fell,” Marcus lied quickly. “She’s clumsy. Look, Moretti. I don’t know why you’re involved, but you don’t want heat from the PD. Walk away. I’ll handle my girl.”

Lucas smiled. It was a cold, razor-thin expression that didn’t reach his eyes. He pulled a phone out of his pocket. Not his smartphone, the old battered flip phone Evelyn had texted. “Do you know this number, detective?” Marcus frowned. “No.”

“Neither did she,” Lucas said. “But she used it to beg for her life. She begged a stranger to save her from you.” Lucas signaled with two fingers. Instantly, two of his men moved. Before Marcus could even reach for his gun, he was on his knees, a suppressed pistol pressed against the base of his skull. “Hey, you can’t do this!” Marcus screamed.

His arrogance replaced by squealing panic. “I’m a cop. I have a radio. They know I’m here.” Lucas walked over to him. He leaned down, bringing his face inches from Marcus’s. “You’re not a cop tonight, Marcus. Tonight, you’re just a man who hits women.” Lucas reached into Marcus’s jacket and pulled out his wallet and badge. He tossed them into the gutter.

“If you were anyone else, you’d be dead right now. But death is too easy.” Lucas straightened up and looked at his enforcer, Luca. “Break his hands,” Lucas ordered casually, as if ordering a coffee. “Both of them. Make sure he never holds a gun or a woman ever again.” “No, no, please!” Marcus shrieked. Lucas turned and walked back to the SUV.

Behind him, the sickening sound of crunching bone and a high-pitched scream filled the night air. He didn’t look back. He slid into the back seat next to Evelyn. She was curled against the door, eyes wide with horror. She had heard the screams. “What did you do?” she whispered. “I solved the problem,” Lucas said calmly.

He tapped the partition glass. “Go.” The convoy peeled away, leaving the broken detective screaming on the pavement. The drive was silent. Evelyn was drifting in and out of consciousness, the adrenaline fading to leave only the sharp, biting pain. The interior of the car was like a spaceship—silent, smooth, illuminated by soft amber lights.

“Where are you taking me?” she slurred. “My estate,” Lucas said. He was typing on his smartphone now, ignoring the flip phone that sat on the console between them. “I have a private surgical suite. You need a thoracic surgeon, not an ER resident.” “Why?” Evelyn asked. She turned her head, looking at his sharp profile. “Why did you come? You’re— you’re the Reaper.”

Lucas paused. He picked up the flip phone. “This phone belonged to my sister, Sophia,” he said. His voice dropped an octave, losing its hardness. “She died 3 years ago. A rival family took her to get to me.” Evelyn held her breath. “I kept the line active,” Lucas continued, staring at the black screen. “I pay the bill every month. I charge it every week. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought— maybe I hoped the universe would give me a second chance.”

He turned to look at Evelyn. His eyes were intense, searching her face for something. “When that phone buzzed tonight, it was the first time in 3 years I thought it was a ghost.” He gestured to her. “Instead, I found you. A woman being crushed by a man who swore to protect her.” He leaned in closer. “I couldn’t save Sophia,” Lucas said, his voice heavy with a dark promise. “So, I’m going to save you, Evelyn, whether you want me to or not.”

The car slowed down. They were passing through massive iron gates. Evelyn saw armed guards patrolling the perimeter of a sprawling mansion that looked more like a fortress. She realized then that her life as Evelyn Vance, the nurse from Oak Street, was over. She hadn’t just been rescued. She had been claimed. The car stopped. The door opened. “Can you stand?” Lucas asked. “I don’t think so,” she whispered.

He lifted her again as he carried her toward the lit entrance of the mansion. Evelyn rested her head against his shoulder. She was terrified of him. She knew what he was—a killer, a criminal, a monster. But as the darkness of unconsciousness finally took her, she had one last thought: “The monster is the only one who came.”

Consciousness returned to Evelyn in slow, disjointed waves. It wasn’t the sharp, gasping awakening she was used to, the kind where she jolted up expecting a blow or a scream. This was heavy, thick, and smelled of antiseptic and lavender. She blinked her eyelashes, feeling weighted. The ceiling above her was high, adorned with intricate crown molding that looked like it belonged in a museum.

A crystal chandelier, dimmed to a low, warm glow, hung in the center. She tried to move and a dull ache throbbed in her left side, but the sharp, stabbing agony was gone. It had been replaced by the floaty, numb sensation of high-grade painkillers. “Easy, Miss Vance.” The voice was unfamiliar, clinical, but kind. Evelyn turned her head. Sitting in a wingback chair next to the bed was a man in his 50s with silver-rimmed glasses and a pristine white coat over a dress shirt.

He was monitoring a sleek portable vitals machine that beeped rhythmically. “Where? Where am I?” Her voice was a dry croak. “You are at the Moretti estate,” the doctor said, standing up to check her IV drip. “I’m Dr. Aris. I repaired your pneumothorax and set your ribs. You had three fractures, one of which had nicked the pleura of your lung. It was a messy injury, Evelyn.

If you had waited another hour, you would have drowned in your own blood.” Evelyn stared at the IV line snaking into her arm. The memories came flooding back. The bathroom floor. The wrong number. The man in the charcoal suit. The sound of Marcus screaming. “The man,” she whispered. “Lucas.” “Mr. Moretti is just outside,” Dr. Aris said.

“He has been pacing the hallway for 6 hours.” Evelyn’s heart hammered against her bruised ribs. 6 hours. The most feared crime lord in Chicago had waited for her. “Can I leave?” she asked, though she knew the answer. Dr. Aris gave her a look that was equal parts pity and warning. “Medically, no. You need bed rest for at least 2 weeks. Logistically, that is a question for Mr. Moretti, but I would advise you to rest. You are safe here.”

“Safe?” The word felt foreign on her tongue. There was a soft knock on the heavy mahogany door. It opened before Dr. Aris could speak. Lucas Moretti walked in. He had shed his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and inked with faint, faded tattoos.

He looked tired. The harsh predatory edge he had worn in her apartment was softened slightly by exhaustion, but his presence still sucked the oxygen out of the room. “Doctor,” Lucas said, his voice a low rumble. “How is she?” “Stable,” Aris replied, packing his bag. “She’s awake. Pain is managed. She needs hydration and sleep. I’ll be back in the morning to check the drain.”

Dr. Aris nodded to Evelyn, then slipped out of the room, closing the door with a soft click. Suddenly, the room felt massive and incredibly small at the same time. Just Evelyn and the Reaper. Lucas didn’t come to the bedside immediately. He walked to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain to look out into the night.

“Do you know what Marcus Thorne is doing right now?” Lucas asked, not looking at her. Evelyn flinched at the name. “No.” “He’s in surgery at St. Luke’s,” Lucas said calmly. “It will take three surgeons to reconstruct the bones in his hands. He will never hold a service weapon again. He will likely be forced into early retirement.”

Evelyn stared at Lucas’s broad back. “You crippled him.” Lucas turned. His eyes were dark, bottomless pits. “I stopped him. There is a difference.” He walked toward the bed, moving with the silent grace of a predator. He pulled the chair Dr. Aris had vacated closer to the bed and sat down. Up close, Evelyn could see the flecks of gold in his dark irises.

She could smell the faint scent of tobacco and sandalwood clinging to him. “Why?” Evelyn asked, her voice trembling. “Why did you do all of this? I’m nobody. I’m just a nurse who can’t type.” Lucas looked at her hands, which were resting on the white duvet. Her knuckles were bruised from where she had banged on the bathroom door.

“You texted Sophia’s number,” he said quietly. “Do you believe in fate, Evelyn?” “No,” she whispered. “I believe in bad luck.” “I didn’t used to believe in it either,” Lucas admitted. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sophia was my twin. She was the light to my shadow. When she died, the world went gray. I kept that phone because I couldn’t let go. When it rang, I thought it was a sign, a test.”

He paused, his gaze intensifying. “When I saw you in that bathroom—broken, terrified, but still fighting to survive—I saw her. I saw the woman I couldn’t save.” He reached out his hand, hovering over hers for a second before he pulled back as if afraid he might break her, too. “I couldn’t leave you there.”

“So, what am I now?” Evelyn asked, tears pricking her eyes. “Am I your prisoner?” Lucas’s expression hardened slightly. “You are my guest. You are under my protection. That means no one—not the police, not Marcus, not the devil himself—can touch you while you are in this house.”

“And if I want to go home?” “You don’t have a home anymore, Evelyn,” Lucas said ruthlessly. “Marcus has already spun the story. He’s claiming you had a psychotic break, attacked him, and ran off with a local gang member. There is an APB out for your arrest. If you step outside these gates, the police will pick you up and they will deliver you right back to Marcus.”

Evelyn felt the blood drain from her face. The machine beeped faster, betraying her panic. “So, I’m trapped,” she whispered. Lucas stood up. He loomed over her, not threateningly, but with an overwhelming sense of power. “You are hidden,” he corrected. “Recover, heal, eat. When you are strong enough to stand on your own, we will discuss your future. Until then, everything in this house is yours.”

He turned to leave. “Lucas.” He stopped at the door, his hand on the brass knob. “Thank you,” she breathed. It was a complicated gratitude mixed with fear and confusion, but it was real. Lucas didn’t look back. He simply nodded once and walked out, leaving Evelyn alone in the silence of the gilded cage he had built for her.

She looked around the room. It was beautiful. It was warm. It was safe. And it was the most terrifying place she had ever been. Three days passed in a blur of sleep and pain. Evelyn’s world narrowed down to the four walls of the guest suite. It was a luxurious world. Maids brought her trays of gourmet food she barely touched.

Nurses changed her dressings with gentle hands and soft classical music played from hidden speakers. But it was solitary confinement. She hadn’t seen Lucas since the first night. On the fourth morning, Dr. Aris removed the chest tube. The relief was instantaneous, though her ribs still ached with a deep, bone-bruised soreness.

“You need to move,” Dr. Aris said, helping her sit up. “Your lungs need to expand. Walk around the room. If you feel up to it, you can walk the hallway, but do not go downstairs yet.” Evelyn nodded. Once the doctor left, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was wearing silk pajamas that someone had bought for her—expensive, soft, and fitting perfectly. It unsettled her.

How did they know her size? She stood up, swaying slightly. She caught her reflection in the vanity mirror. She looked like a ghost. Her skin was pale, dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes, and her hair was a tangled mess. But the bruises on her neck were fading to a sickly yellow, and her eyes—her eyes looked different.

The constant hunted look of fear she had worn for 2 years was gone, replaced by a weary curiosity. She opened the door to her room. The hallway was massive, lined with dark wood paneling and oil paintings in heavy gold frames. It was silent. The house felt empty yet alive, as if the walls were listening.

Evelyn walked slowly, trailing her hand along the wall for support. She passed several closed doors until she reached an open set of double doors at the end of the hall. It was a library: floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes, a rolling ladder, and a massive fireplace where a fire crackled, chasing away the chill of the rainy Chicago afternoon.

And there, sitting in a leather armchair by the fire, was Lucas. He was reading a file, a glass of amber liquid resting on the side table. He wore a black turtleneck and slacks, looking less like a mob boss and more like a brooding academic. He looked up as she entered. He didn’t seem surprised. “You’re walking,” he noted.

“Dr. Aris said I should,” Evelyn replied. She felt exposed standing there, intruding on his sanctuary. “I didn’t know you were in here.” “This is my house, Evelyn. I am everywhere.” He closed the file and gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit. You look like you’re about to fall over.” Evelyn walked over and lowered herself gingerly into the chair.

The heat from the fire felt good against her aching bones. “Where is everyone?” she asked. “The house is so quiet.” “My men stay in the west wing or the gatehouse,” Lucas explained. “I prefer silence in my living quarters. Noise reminds me of things I prefer to forget.” Evelyn looked above the fireplace. There was a large portrait hanging there.

It depicted two people. A young Lucas looking sharp and dangerous even in his 20s, and a woman who looked like his mirror image, but with softer features and a smile that lit up the canvas. “Is that her?” Evelyn asked softly. “Sophia?” Lucas’s gaze followed hers, his expression, usually so guarded, cracked with a profound sadness.

“Yes, that was painted a month before she died.” He took a sip of his drink. “She was the only person in this world who knew me. Not the Boss, not the Reaper. Just Lucas.” “What happened to her?” Evelyn asked. She knew she was pushing, but she needed to understand the man who held her life in his hands. Lucas looked at her, his eyes cold again.

“She fell in love with the wrong man. A man who promised to protect her. But when my enemies came for her, he ran. He left her to die to save his own skin.” Evelyn felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. “And the man?” “He is no longer a problem,” Lucas said simply. The finality in his tone made Evelyn shiver.

“Is that why you saved me?” Evelyn asked. “Because Marcus is like him?” “Partly,” Lucas admitted. “But mostly because you didn’t run. In the bathroom, you were texting for help, but you were also locking the door. You were trying to survive. Sophia—she gave up in the end. She accepted her fate. You didn’t. I admire that.”

He stood up and walked over to a small cabinet, pouring a glass of water. He handed it to her. “Do you have family, Evelyn? Besides the brother you tried to text.” Evelyn took the water, her hand brushing his. “Liam. He’s my younger brother. He’s in college. I— I need to call him. He must be worried sick.” Lucas’s face went blank. He walked back to the window, his back to her.

“Liam came to your apartment the night of the incident,” Lucas said. Evelyn sat up straighter, wincing. “He did? Is he okay? Did Marcus hurt him?” “Marcus wasn’t there, but the police were. They told Liam the official story—that you attacked Marcus and ran away with a lover.” “He wouldn’t believe that!” Evelyn said fiercely. “He knows Marcus is abusive.”

“He knows,” Lucas agreed. “But he is a 20-year-old student up against the Chicago Police Department. He tried to file a missing person report. They threatened to arrest him for obstruction of justice.” “I have to tell him I’m safe,” Evelyn said, reaching for the pocket of her pajamas, realizing she didn’t have a phone.

“Please, Lucas, let me call him.” Lucas turned around. “No.” “Why?” Evelyn’s voice rose. “He’s my brother!” “Because if you call him, Marcus will know,” Lucas said, his voice hard. “Marcus has tapped Liam’s phone. He has a surveillance car parked outside Liam’s dorm. He is waiting for you to make contact. The moment you do, he will use Liam to get to you.”

Evelyn slumped back in the chair, defeated. “So I just let him think I’m dead?” “You let him think you are missing,” Lucas corrected. “It is safer for him. If he knows where you are, he becomes a target. Ignorance is his shield.” Lucas walked over and crouched down in front of her chair, bringing him to her eye level.

It was an intimate gesture, one that made the large, empty room feel suddenly very small. “I know it hurts,” Lucas said low. “I know you feel trapped, but you have to trust me. Marcus Thorne is not just an abuser. He is a cornered animal, and he is coming for you.” Meanwhile, across the city, the sterile silence of a different room was broken by a rage-filled scream.

Marcus Thorne lay in a hospital bed at St. Luke’s. His hands were encased in thick plaster casts that went up to his elbows. They were heavy, useless clubs at the end of his arms. “Detective, please, you need to calm down,” a nurse said nervously, hovering by the door. “Get out!” Marcus roared. “Get out!”

The nurse fled. Marcus stared at his hands. The pain was excruciating, a constant throbbing reminder of his humiliation. He had been disarmed, forced to his knees, and broken by a criminal. And Evelyn had watched. She had let Moretti take her. The door to his hospital room opened. It wasn’t a nurse this time.

It was a man in a cheap suit smelling of stale cigarettes. “Captain Miller.” “You look like hell, Marcus,” Miller said, closing the door. “Moretti did this,” Marcus hissed, spit flying from his lips. “I want a warrant. I want a SWAT team at his gates. I want him dead.” Miller shook his head, looking tired. “We can’t touch Moretti, Marcus.

You know that. He has judges in his pocket. And technically, there’s no proof, no witnesses. Just your word against his. And your word is worth nothing right now because Internal Affairs is sniffing around about your domestic dispute.” “So we do nothing?” Marcus whispered, his eyes bulging. “He has my fiancée!” “She’s gone, Marcus. Let it go.” “No.”

Marcus looked down at his broken hands. A dark, twisted plan was forming in his mind. The law couldn’t help him. The badge couldn’t help him. But the law wasn’t the only power in Chicago. “Get me my phone,” Marcus ordered, nodding toward the bedside table. “Marcus, don’t do anything stupid,” Miller warned.

“Just get the phone, Miller. I need to make a call.” Miller hesitated, then placed the smartphone on Marcus’s chest. Marcus used his knuckles to clumsily swipe the screen. His face twisted in concentration and pain. He dialed a number he hadn’t used in years—a number for the Bratva, the Russian mob. Moretti’s only real rivals in the city.

The line picked up. “This is Thorne,” Marcus rasped. “I have information on Lucas Moretti. I know where he sleeps, and I know his weakness.” Marcus smiled, a gruesome expression. “I’m going to burn his world down,” Marcus whispered to the empty room. “And I’m going to start with her.” Two weeks bled into three.

The bruises on Evelyn’s neck faded to faint yellow echoes, and the sharp stabbing pain in her ribs dulled to a persistent ache that flared only when she laughed or twisted too quickly. But the physical healing was the easy part. It was the silence that was loud. The Moretti estate was a fortress of solitude. Evelyn had free reign of the second floor now.

She spent her days in the library reading books she couldn’t focus on or staring out at the manicured gardens that were patrolled by men with earpieces and grim expressions. She hadn’t seen Lucas in 4 days. He was a ghost in his own home, leaving before dawn and returning after she had fallen asleep. On a Tuesday evening, the routine broke.

Evelyn was sitting on the window seat in her room, watching a storm roll in over Lake Michigan. The sky was a bruised purple, heavy with rain. There was a knock at the door—not the maid’s timid tap, a solid, heavy knock. “Come in,” Evelyn said. Lucas entered. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck.

He carried a garment bag in one hand and a small velvet box in the other. “You look better,” he said, his eyes sweeping over her. He didn’t smile, but the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch. “I feel better,” Evelyn said, standing up. She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive habit she hadn’t quite unlearned. “I haven’t seen you.”

“War is time-consuming,” Lucas said dryly. He walked over and placed the garment bag on the bed. “There is a dinner tonight downstairs.” “Just us?” Evelyn looked at the bag. “A dinner?” “I have been negligent as a host,” Lucas said. He placed the small velvet box on the nightstand. “And there are things we need to discuss regarding your future.”

He turned to leave, but stopped at the door. “Wear the dress. I’ll see you in an hour.” An hour later, Evelyn stood in front of the mirror. The dress was breathtaking: a deep emerald silk that draped over her body like water, with long sleeves that hid the fading bruises on her arms, but a back that dipped low.

It was elegant, expensive, and made her feel like a stranger to herself. She looked at the velvet box on the nightstand. Inside was a thin platinum chain with a small pendant: a jagged piece of raw diamond, unpolished and sharp. It wasn’t pretty in the traditional sense. It was resilient. She clasped it around her neck. When she descended the grand staircase, Lucas was waiting at the bottom.

He had showered and changed into a fresh black suit. When he looked up and saw her, his breath hitched. It was a microscopic reaction, gone in a second, but Evelyn saw it. He offered her his arm. “You look dangerous, Evelyn.” “Is that a compliment?” she asked, taking his arm. His bicep was rock hard beneath the expensive fabric.

“In my world, it is the highest compliment.” They ate in the formal dining room, a long mahogany table set for 20, but occupied only by two. The candles flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. They spoke of small things first: books, the weather, the architecture of the house. But as the main course was cleared away, the atmosphere shifted.

The storm outside had broken, rain lashing against the tall windows. Lucas poured her a glass of wine; he didn’t drink. “Marcus has made a move,” Lucas said. No preamble, no sugar-coating. Evelyn’s hand froze around the stem of her glass. “What kind of move?” “He has reached out to the Petrov family. The Russian Bratva.”

Lucas’s voice was calm, terrifyingly so. “He is selling them police secrets—routes, shift changes, evidence locker codes—in exchange for one thing.” “Me,” Evelyn whispered. “You,” Lucas confirmed, “and my head on a pike.” He reached across the table. For the first time, he took her hand fully in his.

His skin was rough, calloused from years of violence, but his touch was gentle. “I need you to understand the danger you are in, Evelyn. This isn’t just a jealous ex-boyfriend anymore. This is a syndicate war. The Petrovs are ruthless. They don’t care about collateral damage.” “So, what do we do?” Evelyn asked.

She was surprised to find that her voice didn’t shake. “Do I run? Do you send me away?” Lucas’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. He looked at her with an intensity that made her toes curl. “I don’t send away things I value,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough growl. “And I don’t run.” “Then what?” “We fight.”

“But I need to know if you are ready. If you stay here with me, you are a target. If I send you to Europe, I can give you a new name, a new life. You will be safe, but you will be alone.” He squeezed her hand. “The choice is yours, Evelyn. The plane is fueled on the tarmac. You can leave tonight.”

Evelyn looked at him. She looked at the man who had kicked down a door to save her. The man who had sat by her bedside. The man who looked at her not as a victim, but as someone dangerous. She thought of Marcus out there in the dark, hunting her. If she ran, she would spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.

“I’m tired of being afraid,” Evelyn said softly. She tightened her grip on Lucas’s hand. “I’m not going anywhere.” Lucas let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a long time. He stood up, pulling her up with him. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Good,” he murmured, stepping closer until she could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

“Because I wasn’t sure I could let you go.” He leaned in, his lips brushed her forehead—a chaste, protective kiss that felt more intimate than anything she had ever experienced. “Boss!” The moment shattered. Luca, head of security, stood in the doorway. His face was pale, his earpiece blinking.

“What is it?” Lucas asked, not moving away from Evelyn. “The perimeter sensors,” Luca said, his voice tight. “They didn’t trip.” Lucas frowned. “What do you mean?” “I mean, they’re offline. Someone hacked the system from the inside.” The lights in the dining room flickered once, twice. Then the entire estate plunged into darkness.

The estate was silent, save for the storm lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the dining room, the air was thick with unsaid words. Evelyn wore the emerald silk dress Lucas had requested, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Across the long mahogany table, Lucas watched her, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Marcus has made a move,” Lucas said, breaking the silence. He didn’t touch his wine. “He sold police intelligence to the Petrov family, the Russian Bratva. They want my territory, and Marcus wants you.” Evelyn’s grip on her glass tightened. “So what now? Do you send me away?” “I have a jet waiting on the tarmac,” Lucas said, his voice low.

“I can send you to Europe. You’ll be safe, hidden, and rich. But you will be alone.” He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His palm was rough, warm, and grounding. “Or you stay. If you stay, you are a target. But you are my target to protect.” Evelyn looked at him.

“I’m tired of running, Lucas. I’m tired of being afraid.” She turned her hand over, interlacing her fingers with his. “I’m staying.” Lucas exhaled, a tension leaving his shoulders that he hadn’t shown before. He stood up, pulling her to her feet, pulling her close until she could smell the sandalwood and rain on his skin.

“Good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek. “Because I wasn’t sure I could let you go.” He leaned in, his lips inches from hers. Click. The lights died. The estate plunged into absolute darkness. “Down!” Lucas roared, shoving Evelyn beneath the heavy oak table just as the sound of shattering glass echoed from the front hall.

Red emergency lights bathed the room in a sinister, bloody glow. Luca burst in, his assault rifle raised. “Perimeter is gone, boss. They hacked the system. They’re inside.” “Panic room,” Lucas commanded, hauling Evelyn up. He moved with terrifying speed, a gun appearing in his hand. “Move!” They sprinted into the hallway.

Shadows danced on the walls, distorted by the flashing red lights. Gunfire erupted from the foyer—deafening, rapid bursts that shook the floorboards. “They cut the power to the basement elevators!” Luca shouted, firing back at a group of shadowed figures swarming the stairs. “We’re cut off. The roof,” Lucas decided instantly. “Get the chopper, now!”

They ran toward the service stairs. Evelyn’s breath came in ragged gasps, her healing ribs throbbing with every step, but she didn’t slow down. Suddenly, the house intercom crackled to life. “Evelyn…” The voice was distorted, slurred, but unmistakably Marcus. “I know you’re in there, sweetheart. Come out. The Russians just want him. I just want to take you home.”

“Don’t listen,” Lucas growled, pushing her up the stairs. “Did you think you could trade up?” Marcus laughed, a manic, wet sound. “He can’t save you. He’s just a thug in a suit.” They burst onto the third-floor landing. The wind howled through a shattered window, bringing the rain inside.

Three men in tactical gear turned the corner at the end of the hall. Contact. Lucas shoved Evelyn into an alcove and opened fire. The hallway became a wind tunnel of noise. Bullets shredded the drywall above Evelyn’s head. She covered her ears, screaming silently. She felt Lucas jerk violently against her, a grunt of pain escaping his lips.

He fired two more shots, dropping the lead attacker, then slumped back against the wall. “Lucas!” Evelyn gasped. A dark stain was spreading rapidly across the white dress shirt at his side. “I’m fine,” he lied through gritted teeth, his face pale in the strobe light. “Go. The roof access is 10 yards.” “I’m not leaving you, Lucas! Go!” “No!”

She grabbed his arm, her nurse’s instinct overriding her fear. “Stand up, Lucas Moretti! You promised to protect me!” Using her own body as a crutch, she hauled him up. Together, they stumbled toward the heavy steel door. They burst out onto the roof. The storm was a physical force here, rain stinging like needles.

But above the howling wind was the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a helicopter banking hard toward them. “Almost there!” Evelyn yelled. “Stop!” The scream tore through the wind. Standing between them and the helicopter was Marcus Thorne. He looked deranged. He was wearing a hospital gown tucked into jeans, his hands encased in heavy plaster casts.

Behind him stood a massive Russian enforcer holding a shotgun. “Look at you,” Marcus spat, his hair plastered to his skull, “dragging a dying man.” He nodded to the Russian. “Kill him.” Lucas tried to raise his gun, but his arm wavered. He was losing too much blood. “No!” Evelyn stepped in front of Lucas.

“Move, Evelyn!” Marcus shrieked. “Get over here!” The Russian racked the shotgun slide. Evelyn looked at the helicopter hovering just feet away. She looked at Lucas’s trembling hand. Then she looked at the tactical flashlight clipped to Lucas’s belt. She grabbed it. “Lucas,” she whispered, leaning back against him.

“Do you trust me?” “With my life,” he wheezed. “On my signal!” Evelyn turned to the Russian. She raised the heavy flashlight. “Hey!” she screamed. The Russian looked at her. Evelyn flicked the strobe to maximum brightness and aimed it directly into his night-vision goggles. The effect was blinding. The Russian roared, tearing at his face as the amplified light scorched his retinas.

He fired the shotgun blindly into the sky. “Now!” Evelyn dropped to the deck. Lucas fired. He didn’t aim for the men; he aimed for the industrial propane tank next to the heating unit behind them. Boom! A fireball erupted, throwing Marcus and the Russian backward into the darkness. “Go!” Lucas roared. They scrambled toward the helicopter.

Strong hands reached out—Silas, the pilot—and dragged them inside. The chopper lurched upward instantly, the sudden G-force pinning them to the floor. Evelyn slammed the door shut, sealing out the storm. She crawled over to Lucas. He was lying on his back, his eyes fluttering shut. The blood was pooling beneath him. “Stay with me!”

She sobbed, pressing her hands hard against the wound. “You don’t get to die. Not after all that.” Lucas looked up at her, a faint bloody smile touching his lips. “You…” he whispered, his voice fading. “You blinded him.” “I improvised,” she said, tears mixing with the rain on her face. “I told you,” Lucas breathed, his eyes closing, “I don’t run.”

As the helicopter sped toward the sanctuary of the North Woods, Evelyn looked down at her hands, stained with the blood of the man she loved. The fear was gone. In its place was a cold, hard resolve. Marcus had survived the roof; she felt it. But the next time they met, she wouldn’t be the victim. She would be the war.

The helicopter touched down in a clearing deep within the North Woods, miles away from the smoking ruins of the Moretti estate. The safe harbor wasn’t a hospital; it was a decommissioned veterinary clinic that Lucas’s family had bought under a shell company years ago. “Help me get him inside!” Silas shouted, sliding the stretcher out.

Evelyn’s adrenaline had frozen into a cold, diamond-hard focus. She wasn’t the terrified girl in the bathroom anymore. She was a trauma nurse, and the man she needed was dying. They wheeled Lucas into the surgical bay. It was cold, smelling of steel and disinfectant. “He’s lost too much blood,” Silas said, ripping open a packet of gauze.

“I’m a pilot, Evelyn, not a doctor. I can stitch a cut, but I can’t fix this.” Evelyn looked at the wound. The bullet had torn through the oblique muscle, dangerously close to the kidney. It was messy, jagged, and bleeding sluggishly—a bad sign. His blood pressure was tanking. “I can,” Evelyn said. Her voice didn’t shake.

“Wash your hands. You’re my anesthesiologist today. There’s propofol in the cabinet. Push 200 mg.” “Are you sure?” Silas asked, looking at her pale face. “Do it!” she commanded. For the next two hours, Evelyn Vance waged war against death. She worked with mechanical precision. Her hands, which Marcus had crushed in car doors and slammed against walls, were now steady instruments of salvation.

She clamped the bleeder. She irrigated the wound. She stitched the torn muscle layers back together. Her movements were guided by muscle memory and desperation. Lucas was silent, his chest rising and falling in a shallow, terrifying rhythm. When the final stitch was tied, Evelyn stripped off her bloody gloves and collapsed into a chair, her forehead resting against the cool metal of the operating table.

“He’s stable,” Silas whispered, checking the monitor. “You did it.” Evelyn didn’t answer. She reached out and took Lucas’s cold hand in hers, squeezing it until her knuckles turned white. She stayed there as the sun began to rise, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and gold. Two days later, Lucas woke up to the smell of coffee.

Pain was the first thing he felt—a sharp, hot line of fire in his side, but it was manageable. He blinked his eyes, adjusting to the dim light of the recovery room. Evelyn was asleep in the chair next to him. She was curled up in an uncomfortable ball, wearing one of his spare, oversized shirts. Her hair was messy, and there was a smudge of dried blood on her cheek that she had missed washing off.

She looked beautiful. Lucas tried to shift, and a low groan escaped his throat. Evelyn’s eyes snapped open. Instantly she was awake, leaning over him, her hand on his forehead. “You’re awake,” she breathed. “Don’t move. You’ll pop the stitches.” Lucas looked at her. He saw the exhaustion in her eyes, but also the steel.

She wasn’t looking at him with fear anymore. She was looking at him with possession. “You saved me,” Lucas rasped. His throat was dry as sandpaper. “We’re even,” Evelyn said softly. She poured a cup of water and held the straw to his lips. “You came for me. I came for you.” Lucas drank, his eyes never leaving hers. “Marcus?”

Evelyn pulled back, her expression darkened. “Silas has been monitoring the police scanners,” she said quietly. “They found three bodies at the estate. Two Russians, one security guard. And Marcus?” “He’s gone,” Evelyn said. “They found his trench coat melted to the roof, but no body. He escaped.”

Lucas closed his eyes. He let out a long, ragged sigh. “Then it’s not over. He will come back, and he will bring the entire Russian syndicate with him.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “You should have left me, Evelyn. You should have taken the plane. Now you are at war.” Evelyn stood up.

She walked to the window, looking out at the dense forest that hid them from the world. She reached up and touched the jagged diamond necklace she still wore. “I spent 2 years praying for someone to save me,” she said, her voice low but carrying a terrifying weight. “I thought I was weak. But then I met you, and I realized something.”

She turned around. The morning sun hit her face, illuminating the fire in her eyes. “I’m not the damsel in distress, Lucas, and I’m not the victim.” She walked back to the bed and placed her hand over his heart. “Let Marcus come,” Evelyn whispered. “Let the Russians come. We’ll break their ribs. We’ll break their hands. We’ll break everything they have until there is nothing left.”

Lucas smiled. It was a genuine smile this time—sharp and dangerous and full of awe. He covered her hand with his own. “Okay,” the mafia boss replied. “We do it your way.” The wrong number had ended. The right partnership had just begun.