Chapter 2 - The Exit Strategy
The Obsidian Room seemed to contract, its low ceiling pressing down like the lid of an iron trunk.
Meline Hayes did not consider herself a coward, but courage required context, and she had spent the last three hours believing her biggest problem was an empty apartment and a canceled caterer. Now, the cold draft sweeping past the velvet curtain brought the scent of wet asphalt, cheap aftershave, and violence.
The three men who had entered were not dressed for the speakeasy’s discreet clientele. Their leather jackets were dark with rain, their collars turned up, their postures braced with the taut, coiled posture of men sent to retrieve stolen property. The man in the center—broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow—swept his gaze across the curved mahogany bar until it locked squarely onto Meline’s face.
His lips twitched into a humorless smile. He reached beneath his coat.
“Don’t turn around,” Declan said. His voice was entirely level, possessing the steady calm of a man watching the weather change through plate glass.
Meline’s fingers tightened on the edge of the bar until her knuckles went white. “Who are they?”
“People who work for someone Bradley owes a great deal more than three million to,” Declan murmured. He didn’t reach for a weapon, nor did he look toward the mezzanine where Liam stood. He simply set his bourbon down with a soft, precise clink. “Keep your eyes on me, Meline.”
“They’re looking at me like I’m a prize.”
“They’re looking at you like an insurance policy.” Declan reached across the narrow space between their stools. His fingers were warm, calloused, and surprisingly gentle as he closed his hand over hers, peeling her grip away from the mahogany. “Stand up slowly. Pick up your coat.”
“My ring—”
“Leave the damn ring,” he said softly. “It’s already bought you enough trouble.”
Across the room, the man with the scarred eyebrow took two heavy steps forward. “Meline Hayes! Stay right where you are!”
The bartender dropped below the counter without a sound. Down the far end of the room, a couple in a booth scrambled toward the restrooms.
Meline’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her knees threatened to buckle as she slid off the stool, but Declan was already there. He stepped between her and the entrance, his broad shoulders cutting off the sight of the approaching men. Up close, he smelled of cedarwood, rain, and expensive tobacco. His presence felt immovable, a stone wall erected in the middle of a collapsing house.
“Fitzpatrick,” the scarred man barked, halting four paces away. His hand remained wedged inside his jacket. “This isn't your play. The girl belongs to Carmichael, and Carmichael belongs to the Petrov syndicate.”
“Bradley Carmichael belongs to whoever finds him first,” Declan replied, his voice barely raised above conversational pitch. “And as of two minutes ago, she is standing behind me. That makes her mine to account for.”
“Petrov won’t like that.”
“Petrov is welcome to schedule an appointment between nine and five on Tuesday,” Declan said. “Tonight, however, you are trespassing in an establishment that pays me for protection. Liam?”
From the mezzanine above, the distinct, metallic slide of a chambered round cut through the jazz playing faintly over the speakers.
The scarred man froze. His two companions glanced upward, their faces tightening as they spotted Liam O’Connor leaning casually over the wrought-iron railing, the barrel of a suppressed semi-automatic resting on the brass rail.
“You have three seconds to walk backward up those stairs,” Declan told them, never raising his voice. “If your hands come out of your pockets before you reach the street, you won’t make it to the sidewalk.”
Silence hung in the room, thick and suffocating. Meline held her breath, staring at the seam of Declan’s navy suit jacket. She had spent three years with Bradley Carmichael—three years attending charity galas, dining at five-star restaurants, listening to Bradley brag about hedge funds and market acquisitions. Never once had Bradley commanded a room like this. Bradley blustered; he shouted at valets and threatened lawsuits. Declan Fitzpatrick simply breathed, and grown men with guns reconsidered their lives.
The scarred man swallowed, his jaw working. Slowly, his fingers withdrew from his coat, palms raised flat. “Petrov will hear about this, Fitzpatrick.”
“Tell him I sent my regards,” Declan said.
The three men backed away, step by step, their boots scuffing against the polished concrete until they slipped through the velvet curtains and disappeared up the stairs.
Meline let out a shaky exhale that rattled in her chest. “Are they gone?”
Declan turned around. His gray eyes were analytical, assessing her from head to foot to confirm she was unharmed. “For about ninety seconds. They’ll wait outside to box my car in. We’re leaving through the kitchen.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, stepping back, her survival instinct finally overriding the shock. “You just said you run this place. You know the men who want to kill my ex-fiancé. For all I know, you’re just as dangerous as they are.”
A faint, wry smile touched the corner of Declan’s mouth. “Miss Hayes, I am significantly more dangerous than they are. But I don’t kidnap women from bars, and I don’t let Viktor Petrov’s street sweepers take leverage out of my territory.” He extended an arm toward the narrow door behind the bar. “Now, you can stay here and see what happens when Petrov sends six men instead of three, or you can come with me.”
Meline glanced at the velvet curtain, where the heavy wooden door at the street level thudded shut. She looked back at Declan. His dark hair was slightly damp from the storm, his posture impeccable, his eyes waiting.
“My bag,” she whispered.
Declan picked up her small leather purse from the counter, handed it to her, and scooped up the engagement ring she had abandoned in the puddle of tequila. He dropped the diamond into her palm.
“Keep it,” he said, his fingers brushing hers. “If you need to buy a lawyer tomorrow, you’ll want the collateral.”
Before she could protest, he took her elbow, guiding her behind the bar and through the swinging stainless-steel door into the service corridor. Liam met them at the exit, slipping his weapon beneath a tailored trench coat as if it were nothing more than a fountain pen.
“The alley is clear, boss,” Liam reported. “The black Mercedes is idling on Superior.”
“Good,” Declan said. “Take the lead.”
They moved quickly through the labyrinth of back hallways, past stacks of liquor crates and humdrum restaurant supplies, emerging into the biting Chicago night. The rain had turned into a steady, freezing drizzle that stung Meline’s bare arms. She pulled her coat tightly around her silk dress, her heels splashing through oil-slicked puddles.
A sleek, armored Mercedes-Benz sat waiting by the curb, exhaust swirling in the cold air. A driver jumped out, holding the rear door open.
Declan ushered her inside. As Meline slid onto the cold leather seat, she caught sight of her reflection in the tinted window—pale, mascara faintly smudged, looking nothing like the woman who had walked into bridal boutiques that morning.
Declan climbed in beside her, the heavy door thudding shut with the finality of a bank vault. The engine purred, and the sedan pulled smoothly into the downtown traffic.
Meline pressed her back against the door, putting as much distance between them as the wide back seat allowed. “Where are you taking me?”
May you like
Declan adjusted his cuffs, his gaze fixed straight ahead through the rain-streaked windshield. “Somewhere Bradley Carmichael cannot use you to pay his debts.”
***
