Dante confirmed it twelve hours later.

And for Amelia, that knowledge hurt almost as much as believing he was dead.

A private investigator Dante trusted located a man living under the name Nathan Cole outside Henderson, Nevada.

No social media.

Cash rent.

Temporary employment repairing computer systems for small businesses.

A beard.

Thirty pounds lighter than the Ethan Amelia remembered.

But it was him.

“He knew I was alive,” Amelia said.

She stood in Dante’s study staring at the photographs.

“He knew I had a child. He knew where I was. And he stayed away.”

Dante said nothing.

“He let me grieve him.”

“Maybe he had a reason.”

“There is no reason.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He could have called.”

“And if somebody monitored his calls?”

“He emailed me.”

“Three years later.”

She spun toward him.

“You’re defending him?”

“No.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to understand why a man smart enough to hide for three years suddenly broke cover.”

That stopped her.

Dante tapped the photograph.

“Something changed.”

A second photograph showed Ethan entering a grocery store.

A third showed him speaking with an elderly woman near a bus stop.

Ordinary life.

Amelia touched the edge of the print.

Her brother.

Alive.

“You said Raymond boarded a plane to Nevada.”

“Yes.”

“Then Ethan is in danger.”

“I already sent people.”

Her head snapped up.

“You what?”

“Two security specialists.”

“You don’t get to make decisions about my brother.”

“You were unconscious twelve hours ago.”

“I’m awake now.”

“Good.”

Dante leaned against his desk.

“Then make decisions.”

Amelia hated how calmly he said it.

“Get me a flight.”

“No.”

“You just said—”

“You have a concussion.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

The word came out sharper than intended.

Dante looked at her.

For a moment, something neither of them wanted to name passed between them.

Then he looked away.

“Because your son needs his mother conscious.”

The answer was sensible.

That almost irritated her more.

Ben entered the study carrying a toy dinosaur one of Dante’s employees had purchased that morning.

“Mr. Dante?”

Dante looked down.

“Yes?”

“Do you have pancakes?”

Amelia closed her eyes.

Dante Castellano, alleged king of half of Chicago, stared at the four-year-old as though he had been asked to dismantle a bomb.

“I have a kitchen.”

“That’s not pancakes.”

“No.”

Ben frowned.

Dante glanced toward Amelia.

She tried very hard not to smile.

“Ask Rosa,” Dante told him. “She can make pancakes.”

“Chocolate-chip?”

“I assume chocolate is possible.”

Ben nodded solemnly.

“You can have one.”

Then he walked away.

Amelia laughed despite herself.

Dante stared after him.

“Generous.”

“He likes you.”

“That seems irresponsible.”

“He likes dinosaurs and garbage trucks too.”

“Comforting.”

The brief normality ended when Dante’s phone buzzed.

His expression hardened immediately.

His security team had reached Ethan’s rented house.

Empty.

The back door had been forced.

Blood on the kitchen floor.

No body.

Amelia gripped the desk.

“Raymond.”

“Possibly.”

“Definitely.”

“We don’t know.”

“Stop saying that.”

Dante looked at her.

“Facts keep you alive.”

“Facts? Fine. Raymond flew to Nevada after learning I mentioned Ethan. Ethan’s home gets broken into hours later and there’s blood on the floor. There’s your fact.”

Dante didn’t argue.

Another message arrived.

His investigator had found surveillance footage from a gas station near Ethan’s home.

At 9:14 that morning, Ethan entered the passenger side of a dark blue sedan.

He was walking normally.

Nobody appeared to force him.

The driver’s face was partially visible.

Dante enlarged the image.

He recognized him.

Amelia noticed.

“Who is that?”

“No one you know.”

“Dante.”

He remained silent.

“Who?”

“Victor Sanz.”

“What does he do?”

“Security.”

“For whom?”

Dante’s eyes met hers.

“Conrad Voss.”

Amelia sat down.

“So Voss has Ethan.”

“Maybe.”

“You said facts.”

“Fine. A man employed by Voss picked up Ethan.”

“Why?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

The answer arrived sooner than expected.

At 2:07 p.m., Dante received a call from Conrad Voss himself.

Dante put it on speaker.

“Castellano.”

Voss’s voice sounded warm.

Almost grandfatherly.

“I understand you’ve taken an interest in one of my former employees.”

Dante’s face revealed nothing.

“Have I?”

“Raymond Fletcher.”

“Never worked for you, according to your company.”

Voss chuckled.

“Paperwork is such an imperfect reflection of life.”

Amelia stood behind Dante, listening.

“I also understand,” Voss continued, “that Miss Hayes currently enjoys your protection.”

Dante’s eyes became colder.

“You know a great deal.”

“I make it my business.”

“Then make this your business. Stay away from her.”

A pause.

“Be careful, Dante.”

Voss’s tone remained pleasant.

“Your father understood when to leave matters alone.”

“My father died fifteen years ago.”

“Yes. I remember.”

Something in the way he said it changed the room.

Dante slowly straightened.

“Why would you remember?”

“Chicago was smaller then.”