Sophie.
I jerked upright.
My arms were empty.
Panic slammed through me.
“Sophie?”
“She’s here.”
The stranger was holding her.
My daughter.
My baby.
Sleeping peacefully against the chest of a man whose name I didn’t even know.
He had one large hand supporting her back.
Her cheek rested beneath his collarbone.
And Sophie—who sometimes cried when my neighbor Mrs. Alvarez held her—looked completely content.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“You needed it.”
“You could’ve woken me.”
“I tried.”
That was embarrassing.
Then I noticed the aisle.
Three flight attendants stood there.
Including Carol.
None of them looked irritated anymore.
They looked nervous.
Behind them were two enormous men in dark suits.
Neither looked like airline employees.
One of the attendants cleared his throat.
“Mr. Callahan, we’ve confirmed your security team has been given access to the private tarmac.”
My brain stumbled over the name.
Callahan.
The stranger looked up.
“Good.”
“Your vehicles will be waiting.”
“Have the jet fueled.”
One of the two men behind the attendants nodded.
“Yes, boss.”
Something cold slid through my stomach.
Callahan.
Not just any Callahan.
There were names you heard even if you lived two thousand miles away.
Names hidden inside newspaper stories about organized crime investigations, union contracts, politicians, construction companies and nightclubs.
Names people spoke carefully.
Ethan Callahan.
The reputed head of Chicago’s most powerful criminal organization.
The man tabloids had nicknamed the King of Chicago.
I stared at him.
Then at Sophie.
My daughter was asleep in Ethan Callahan’s arms.
He noticed my expression.
“You recognize the name.”
I swallowed.
“A little.”
One of his bodyguards almost smiled.
Ethan didn’t.
He gently transferred Sophie back to me.
My arms immediately tightened around her.
“Thank you,” I said automatically.
Then I whispered, “Why do you need a private jet?”
Ethan looked toward his bodyguard.
“Have they moved?”
The man shook his head.
“Still waiting at Terminal Two.”
“For her?”
“Yes.”
I froze.
Ethan turned back to me.
“She and the baby are coming with me.”
My mouth fell open.
“Excuse me?”
The flight attendants suddenly found reasons to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Good.”
“But you’re still not walking through that terminal.”
My heart began pounding.
“What are you talking about?”
Ethan reached inside his coat slowly enough that I wouldn’t panic.
He removed a phone.
Tapped the screen.
Then held it toward me.
The photograph had obviously been taken only minutes earlier.
Two men stood near an arrivals exit at O’Hare.
One wore a baseball cap.
The other held something in his hand.
A photograph.
My photograph.
And beneath it—
Sophie’s.
I stopped breathing.
“Who are they?”
“That,” Ethan said quietly, “is what I intend to find out.”
We never entered the public terminal.
Ethan’s security moved us through a service corridor and onto a private section of the airport where three black SUVs waited beneath freezing Chicago rain.
I held Sophie so tightly she squirmed.
“This is insane.”
Ethan walked beside me.
“Yes.”
“Did you know they were waiting?”
“Before we landed.”
“Why were you watching them?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then how—”
“My people watch exits when I travel.”
