Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Marble
The slap never landed.
Before Derek’s palm could connect with Beatrice’s cheek, a hand like a hydraulic clamp shot out and caught him by the wrist.
The motion was so fast, so effortless, that it seemed to defy physics.
Derek gasped, his momentum instantly checked. He blinked, turning his head away from Beatrice with a furious snarl, ready to unleash hell on whoever had dared interrupt him.
"Who the hell do you—"
Derek didn’t finish the sentence.
The moment his eyes locked onto Enzo Costa, the color drained completely from his face, leaving him a sickening, pasty gray.
Derek was a small-time real estate hustler who lived in a world of inflated commission checks and local country club networking.
He knew power structures, and he knew who owned Chicago.
Enzo hadn't even stood up straight. He remained leaning slightly against the mahogany-paneled wall, his posture languid, but his grip on Derek’s wrist was absolute.
Slowly, deliberately, Enzo squeezed.
A sickening crunch echoed through the elevator car as small bones shifted under the pressure.
Derek shrieked—a high, undignified sound—and dropped instantly to his knees on the cold marble floor, his other hand clawing frantically at Enzo’s sleeve.
"Please," Derek choked out, tears instantly springing to his eyes, his bravado evaporating into thin air. "Please, I didn't know—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Enzo didn’t look down at him. His dark, impenetrable eyes remained fixed entirely on Beatrice, who was pressed flat against the back wall, her chest heaving, her fingers clutching her torn blouse.
The silence in the elevator was suffocating, broken only by Derek’s pathetic whimpering and the steady, low hum of the car descending toward the lobby.
"Quiet," Enzo murmured. The single word carried the weight of an executioner's axe.
Derek clamped his mouth shut, trembling so violently his teeth clicked together.
Enzo finally turned his gaze away from Beatrice, looking down at Derek as if he were something foul stuck to the sole of his expensive leather shoe.
"You have a loud voice," Enzo said softly, his voice a rich, baritone rumble that sent a shiver straight down Beatrice's spine. "And you have very bad manners in front of a lady."
"I was just—she’s my—" Derek stammered, blood dripping from his freshly torn knuckles onto the polished floor.
"She was," Enzo corrected smoothly, releasing Derek’s wrist with a flick of his hand, as though tossing away garbage.
He straightened his Brioni jacket, adjusting the cuffs.
"Marco," Enzo said without looking back.
The burly man in the tactical jacket stepped forward instantly. "Boss?"
"Take this piece of trash down to the loading dock. Make sure he understands that his lease on life in this city has just expired. If I ever see his face or hear his name in Cook County again, feed him to the river."
"Understood," Marco grunted.
He reached down, grabbing Derek by the back of his expensive suit jacket with one massive hand and lifting him off his feet as easily as if he were a sack of laundry.
Derek thrashed and cried out, but Marco cuffed him hard across the back of the head, silencing him instantly, and dragged him backward out of the elevator as the doors began to open.
Beatrice stood frozen, her eyes wide, watching the terrifying efficiency of the syndicate men.
The lobby of the Deloitte building was empty, the night guard slumped unconscious behind the security desk thanks to Marco’s prior handiwork.
Enzo turned back to Beatrice. The raw, violent edge of his earlier altercation seemed to vanish, replaced by an unsettling, razor-sharp focus that made her feel entirely exposed.
He stepped closer. The heavy scent of Tom Ford and copper washed over her again.
"You can breathe now, Miss Gallagher," Enzo said quietly.
Beatrice blinked, her voice catching in her dry throat. "You... you know my name?"
Enzo’s lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "In my position, I make it a point to know who shares a floor with my corporate holdings. Deloitte audits three of my shell companies. You’re their best forensic auditor. Or at least, you were, until tonight."
He reached down, his fingers brushing against the marble floor to retrieve her scattered tube of lipstick and her dropped receipts.
He didn't hand them back immediately. Instead, he held them in his palm, looking at her with a strange, calculating intensity.
"You dropped these," he said.
Beatrice stared at his hand. This was a man who ordered executions without blinking, yet he was standing in a descending elevator picking up her drugstore makeup.
"Why?" she whispered, the question slipping past her lips before she could stop it. "Why did you help me? You didn't have to."
Enzo stepped closer still, closing the distance between them until she could see the tiny, golden flecks in his dark, obsidian eyes.
"I don't like loud men," Enzo replied softly. "And I especially don't like men who destroy things that are valuable."
Before Beatrice could process the implication of his words, the elevator chimed softly and the doors slid open to the subterranean parking garage.
Marco was waiting by a sleek, black armored Mercedes, holding a weeping Derek pinned against the concrete pillar.
Enzo stepped out of the elevator first, offering a single, immaculate hand to help Beatrice across the threshold.
She looked down at his hand—strong, dangerous, and stained with the faint smear of someone else's blood—and then up at his face.
Her old life was completely gone. The Marriott room, the fear, the pathetic hiding—all of it had just been shattered in a matter of minutes.
May you like
Slowly, her hand trembling, Beatrice placed her fingers in Enzo's.
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