Six nurses had quit in five weeks, and one of them had left the mansion sobbing so hard she forgot her coat.

The sunlight hit Liam’s face, revealing every line of pain carved into his jawline. His dark hair was silver-streaked at the temples, tangled against white pillows. For three seconds, he looked less like the feared mob leader of the Midwest and more like a man drowning in a deep, endless well.

“Close them,” he commanded, but the thunder in his voice had collapsed into a raspy whisper.

“No,” I said, stepping closer to his bedside. “You’re Vitamin D deficient, your skin is grey, and dark rooms breed bacteria. You don't hate the light, Mr. Mercer. You hate that you can't walk out into it.”

He turned his head toward me slowly, his blue eyes flashing with dangerous heat. “You think you know me, Nurse...?”

“Clara,” I supplied, checking the drip rate on his IV bag. “And no. I don't know you. I don't know why four SUVs with blacked-out windows are parked in your courtyard, or why the men in the hallway carry submachine guns under their coats. I only know human anatomy. And right now, your anatomy needs sunlight.”

He let out a dry, bitter sound that might have been a laugh. “You have a mouth on you.”

“It keeps me from screaming when people throw glass at my head.”

He looked away, his gaze drifting back to the window, watching the wind sway the pine trees at the edge of the estate. The sunlight illuminated the long, jagged scar running from his left collarbone down into the waistband of his trousers—a remnant of the ambush that had put him in this bed three weeks ago.

The door clicked open. Leo stepped inside, carrying a black leather briefcase. He stopped dead when he saw the open drapes, his hand reflexively twitching toward his armpit.

“Who opened those?” Leo demanded, his eyes darting to me.

“I did,” I said, adjusting Liam’s pulse oximeter.

“Leo,” Liam cut in before his security chief could escalate. “Leave the curtains.”

Leo blinked, caught off balance. “Boss, the perimeter—"

“Leave them,” Liam repeated, his voice dropping into that quiet, terrifying register that made even seasoned killers stand straight. “What’s the report from the docks?”

Leo glanced at me, hesitation written across his scarred face.

“She doesn't care about the docks,” Liam said flatly. “She only cares about Friday.”

“Carmine’s men tried to seize the shipment in South Chicago,” Leo reported, stepping closer to the bed. “We pushed them back, but we took losses. The families are getting restless, Liam. They know you haven't been seen in public for a month. Rumors are spreading that you’re paralyzed.”

Liam’s fingers dug into the mattress until his knuckles turned ivory. “I am not paralyzed.”

“Prove it then,” I chimed in, handing him his oral antibiotic pills and a glass of water. “Take your medicine so your bone can knit together.”