Chapter 1 - The Man Beneath the Snow
The first time I saw Luca DeSantis, he was bleeding into the snow.
I did not know his name.
I did not know that men in Chicago lowered their voices when they said it.
I did not know three different federal task forces had spent years trying to prove what his family controlled.
I definitely did not know his own brother had just put two bullets into him and left him on a mountain to freeze.
All I knew was that someone was dying twenty feet below me.
And the storm was getting worse.
I had gone out just before sunset because one of the solar batteries behind my cabin had stopped charging.
Living alone in the Colorado Rockies teaches you to respect small problems before they become large ones. A dead battery at four in the afternoon becomes frozen pipes at midnight. A loose shutter becomes broken glass before dawn.
So I pulled on my parka, grabbed my headlamp, and headed outside.
The snow had already swallowed the lower half of my boots.
The forecast said six inches.
The sky said the meteorologist was a liar.
I was tightening the battery housing when I heard something.
Not a shout.
A scrape.
Then another.
Metal against rock.
I turned toward the ravine behind the tree line.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Wind drove snow across my face.
Then I heard it again.
A low groan.
I should have gone inside and called mountain rescue.
That would have been sensible.
But cell reception around my cabin came and went according to rules known only to God, the weather, and one particularly vindictive satellite.
So I took my medical pack and rope.
Before moving to the mountains, I had worked as an emergency-room nurse in Denver for nine years.
You never completely stop being one.
You especially do not stop being one when somebody is bleeding.
I found the first blood twenty yards into the woods.
Dark drops on fresh snow.
Then a torn strip of black fabric caught on a branch.
Then footprints.
One set.
Unsteady.
The trail ended at the ravine.
I crawled toward the edge.
A man lay below.
Black coat.
White shirt.
Dark hair almost buried beneath snow.
One arm stretched awkwardly beside him.
Blood soaked the left side of his coat.
“Hey!”
His head moved.
Barely.
“Can you hear me?”
His eyes opened.
Even half-conscious, he looked dangerous.
That sounds ridiculous.
People dying from blood loss do not look dangerous.
They look pale.
Confused.
Fragile.
But something in his eyes made me stop.
He stared up at me as if he were deciding whether I was a threat.
Then he said:
“Leave.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Get out of here.”
His voice was barely louder than the wind.
“You’ve been shot.”
“I noticed.”
“Very impressive. Stay still.”
I opened my pack.
His expression sharpened.
“Woman.”
“Woman?”
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“Whoever did this may come back.”
That stopped my hands.
“Who did this?”
He closed his eyes.
For one second, I thought he had passed out.
Then he whispered:
“My brother.”
The wind seemed to disappear.
I stared down at him.
“Your brother shot you?”
He didn’t answer.
Blood loss was winning.
I tied the rope around a pine trunk.
“I’m coming down.”
His eyes opened again.
“No.”
“You seem very committed to dying inconveniently.”
“Leave me.”
“Not happening.”
I lowered myself slowly.
The ravine was steeper than I expected.
My boots slipped twice.
By the time I reached him, my gloves were wet through.
I knelt beside him.
His pulse was fast.
Too fast.
His skin was freezing.
I opened his coat.
Two wounds.
One high near the shoulder.
Another through his side.
Neither appeared immediately fatal.
The blood loss was.
“You’re lucky.”
He laughed once.
It became a cough.
“People keep saying that.”
“Who?”
“No one anymore.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I pressed gauze against his side.
He grabbed my wrist.
Fast.
Strong despite everything.
“Don’t call police.”
His eyes locked on mine.
“If you call police, more people die.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I pushed harder against the wound.
He hissed.
“I’m warning you.”
“Noted.”
“My name is Luca.”
“Nora.”
“Listen carefully, Nora.”
“I’m working.”
“They think I’m dead.”
“Wonderful.”
“Keep it that way.”
I looked at him.
“People who say things like that usually have complicated lives.”
“You have no idea.”
“Good. I don’t want one.”
For the first time, the corner of his mouth moved.
Almost a smile.
Then pain erased it.
Getting him out took forty minutes.
I built a rough hauling system around the pine and used my own body weight against the rope.
He tried helping.
His legs failed.
Twice.
The second time, his hand slipped.
I caught his wrist.
For three terrifying seconds he hung below me while snow slid beneath my knees.
“Don’t let go,” I said.
His eyes lifted.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
I pulled.
Slowly.
One inch.
Then another.
His other hand found the ledge.
Finally he rolled onto solid ground.
For several seconds, we lay beside each other in the snow.
I could hear both of us breathing.
Then Luca turned his head toward me.
“You should have left me.”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I looked at him.
“Because somebody did.”
His expression changed.
Before he could ask what I meant, I stood.
“Can you walk?”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
He looked almost offended.
I wrapped his good arm around my shoulders.
“You always this cheerful?”
“Only during blizzards.”
My cabin was less than half a mile away.
It took almost an hour.
By the time we reached it, Luca was barely conscious.
I got him inside.
Cut away his shirt.
Cleaned the wounds.
Neither bullet was still inside.
That was the good news.
The bad news was everything else.
Bruised ribs.
Possible concussion.
Blood loss.
Hypothermia.
He needed a hospital.
He refused.
“You’re not in charge here,” I told him.
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t sound aware.”
“If you take me to a hospital, people will know I survived.”
“Maybe surviving is usually considered positive.”
“Not tonight.”
I looked at him.
“Who are you?”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“A man whose family just tried to bury him.”
Then he passed out.
I sat beside the couch for ten minutes.
Trying to decide whether I had made the worst decision of my life.
At 10:43 p.m., headlights appeared through the storm.
Not one vehicle.
Three.
Black SUVs.
They stopped outside my cabin.
Doors opened.
Men stepped into the snow.
I reached beneath my kitchen counter and pulled out the shotgun I had not used in three years.
Behind me, Luca opened his eyes.
He heard the engines.
His face became completely still.
“Friends?” I whispered.
He looked toward the window.
“I don’t know.”
The first man reached my porch.
Then lowered his head when he saw Luca through the glass.
“Boss.”
I slowly turned toward the bleeding stranger on my couch.
Luca DeSantis looked at me.
May you like
And that was the exact moment I understood I had not rescued an ordinary man.
I had rescued the man half the criminal world believed was already dead.
