Good. There she is. I like her feisty, and I hope she’s able to find herself once all this settles.

“It’s not controlling, sweetheart.” My voice stays even, firm without pressing too hard. “It’s helping. And I know why you’re fighting me, but believe me—I’m not the bad guy.”

She lets out a breath, short and uneven. “How can I trust you when I just met you?”

“Blind faith,” I answer. “The same way I’m trusting you right now.” I don’t look away, don’t let her escape the truth of what I’m saying. “I’m offering you more than a job, more than a roof—I’m offering protection. And whether you realize it or not, I’m putting myself in danger for you.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows, her fingers tightening in the fabric of her sleeves. She exhales loudly, blinking fast, looking anywhere but at me.

She doesn’t believe it yet.

That she’ll be safe. That this won’t end the way she fears it will. It’s okay, trust takes time.

I’ll show her what I’m capable of. I couldn’t stop what happened to Mom. Couldn’t stop what Dad did to Therese most nights—I was too young, too small, too damn powerless to change any of it. But at some point, I was able to stand up for Ledger and Keir. It didn’t end well for me—I took the hits, bore the bruises—but I did it anyway.

And I’d do it again.

Because after that, I learned something.

I’m not powerless. And this time, I’m not a kid. I know how to fight. I know how to win. If someone comes looking for her, they won’t be the ones walking away from it.

I will.

Chapter Twelve

Atlas

According to my phone, Sanford’s message comes through thirty minutes after I hit send.

In that time, I manage to convince Blythe—she prefers that name—to eat some crackers and drink ginger ale. I’m not sure why I even have some in this place, but at least it was useful.

When I open the text, I’m . . . I wasn’t prepared for the information he gathered about Winston Reginald Worthington IV. The name alone drips with power, old money, and corruption so deep it doesn’t leave trails—it leaves bodies.

It seems like Henrietta Worthington ran from a fucking monster. A monster who has ties to one of the most powerful syndicates in Miami. He has political reach. And the man is legally untouchable. The only way to get rid of him will probably be with a bullet to his head.

My grip tightens around the phone.

I expected a rich bastard with a superiority complex—a controlling husband who thrived on power behind closed doors but could be exposed if you pulled the right thread.

This?