When I came around, I was looking at another hospital ceiling.

The EKG beeped its steady rhythm somewhere nearby.

I lay there staring at the ceiling until Vincent's voice cut through.

"Happy now?"

His voice was rough, close to cracking. I turned my head. His eyes were red, his suit creased all over, tie crooked, like he hadn't slept in days.

"Getting slapped around and not saying anything. Ending up in the ICU God knows how long. You're a masochist, Quinn. Jesus."

He wiped his eye, stood up. "Stay put. I'm going to get you lunch."

He came back with food and brought the doctor along.

The doctor checked me over, confirmed the wound wasn't infected, then said:

"I notice it's been Mr. Garcia looking after you this whole time. Is he your husband?"

I shook my head.

The doctor nodded. "You may want to notify your husband, at least. He should know."

"You were aware you were ten weeks pregnant?"

I went still.

"I'm... pregnant."

Something moved across the doctor's face. "Yes. But I'm sorry. You lost the baby."

I nodded. My face didn't change.

The doctor gave me the rest of the instructions and left. Vincent looked at me once, set down the food, squeezed my shoulder, and stepped out.

The room was just the EKG now.

I reached down and laid my hand gently against my stomach.

Thick bandages. A damp stain beginning to soak through.

A long moment passed.

Then I broke down and cried.

By the time I was mobile again, several more days had gone by.

The police, or rather the joint investigation unit that handled cases overlapping with family operations, came to take my statement once I'd stabilized. They told me they'd caught the driver. He'd done it deliberately. Attempted murder.

When I got to the station, I saw him. Young, barely an adult, they told me.

He was pacing around, trying to make calls, agitated.

"Sis! Figure something out! Aren't you with someone from the family now? Get him to pull some strings, get me out of here!"

An officer snatched the phone from his hand before he finished.

They put me in a waiting room to rest while they processed him. His name was Danny Brown.

Through the window from where I sat, I could see the intake area. His face nagged at me. I knew I'd seen it somewhere.

Then his sister came through the door, and I understood why. Nina Brown. Behind her, in a suit, was Damian.

I smiled to myself.

An officer explained the charges: deliberate vehicular assault, grievous bodily harm. Then he said:

"Because of his actions, a woman who was pregnant at the time suffered a miscarriage at the scene and nearly didn't survive two days in the ICU."

Nina shrugged. "Fine. Just tell us how much. My brother can put in a word with the family. This kind of thing gets handled."

Every officer in the room looked ready to lose it.

The detective spotted Damian. "Are you family of the victim as well? Because frankly, if everyone with a little money and connections thought they could buy their way out of anything, there'd be no point in any of us being here."

Damian pressed two fingers to his brow, grinding through his irritation. "What does the victim want? How much?"

One of the officers murmured something to the detective, who turned back. "The victim wants to speak with you directly."

"Fine, let's hear it. I want to see who has the nerve to come after my brother!" Nina's voice rose, then her breath snagged and she pressed a hand to her chest, coughing.

Damian said flatly, "Take us to them."

They brought them to the room where I was waiting.

I was pulling my hospital coat tighter, still pale. I looked up when the door opened.

Damian walked in. He stopped.

His eyes went wide.

I met his gaze and smiled, thin and colorless.

"I don't want money."

"I want his life in exchange."

"Or he could give me my baby back."