Gabriel slowly took his hand off the door handle.
Megan immediately wished she could pull the words back.
Not because she did not mean them.
Because she did.
Sofia slept curled beneath a blanket on the couch, her unicorn backpack resting on the floor beside her.
Beyond the windows, rain slid over the dark grounds of Gabriel Montesani’s estate.
Somewhere outside those gates were the people who had burned Megan’s office, followed her into Harbor Medical, and gone looking for her daughter.
And Megan Richardson, who had spent three years telling sources never to surrender control to powerful men, had just asked one of Chicago’s most feared men not to leave her alone.
Gabriel looked at her for a long moment.
He did not smile.
He did not use her fear against her.
He simply walked to the chair across from the couch and sat down.
“I’ll stay until you sleep,” he said.
“I didn’t say I was going to sleep.”
“No,” Gabriel replied.
“You appear determined to remain conscious until spite becomes a medical treatment.”
Despite everything, a breath that almost became a laugh escaped her.
It hurt her ribs.
She hated him a little for noticing.
He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees.
“Rosa will bring something for the pain.”
“I need information, not medication.”
“You need both.”
“Who were the men at the hospital?”
“We’re finding out.”
“What about Thomas?”
“Safe for tonight.”
“And Sofia?”
Gabriel glanced toward the sleeping girl.
His voice changed almost imperceptibly.
“She stays beside you.”
Megan studied him.
Every article she had ever read about Gabriel Montesani used the same collection of words: suspected, connected, feared, untouchable.
His name lived in the negative space of official statements.
Detectives would discuss raids but not him.
Prosecutors would mention organizations while carefully avoiding certain families.
Sources lowered their voices before saying his surname.
Yet the man sitting across from her was watching Sofia’s blanket slip toward the floor.
He rose, crossed the room, and pulled it back over the child without waking her.
Megan said, “That doesn’t fit.”
Gabriel looked at her.
“What?”
“You.”
“You met me three hours ago.”
“I’ve investigated men like you for years.”
“No,” he said.
“You investigated what men were willing to tell you about men like me.”
The distinction irritated her because it sounded like something she might have written in a notebook.
Gabriel returned to the chair.
“You are still doing it,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Interviewing me.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“You nearly died tonight.”
“I’m still a reporter.”
His gaze held hers.
