Chapter 2
The second-floor guest wing was quiet enough to hear the hum of the air conditioning through the vents.
Daniel didn’t speak a word as he led me down the carpeted hallway. His hand stayed lightly under my elbow, supporting just enough weight so I didn’t have to drive my ruined heel into the runner rug. He was six-foot-three, built like a brick wall, and had worked for Dominic Valenti for six years. In this house, you learned very quickly that the men with the quietest voices were the ones who carried the heaviest guns.
He opened the door to the west guest suite—a room lined in dark wood, charcoal silk curtains, and a leather sofa wide enough to sleep three people.
"Sit," Daniel said gently.
I sank onto the edge of the leather. My hands were shaking so hard I had to lock them between my knees to keep them still.
"Daniel, please," I whispered, looking up at him. "Let me just pack my locker and call a cab. If Marcus—"
"Marcus isn't coming up here," Daniel cut in. His tone wasn't unkind, but it was solid iron. "Dr. Russo is already in the elevator. Stay on the couch. Don't touch the wound."
"I don't need a doctor. I just need a bandage and—"
The suite door swung open before I could finish.
Dr. Russo didn’t look like an underworld physician. He wore a crisp, tailored gray suit, silver-rimmed glasses, and carried a slim leather medical bag. He had been sewing up Valenti soldiers since before Dominic took over the family from his father. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer sympathy. He simply set his case on the low mahogany table, snapped on a pair of black nitrile gloves, and knelt on the floor in front of me.
"Foot up," Russo said.
I lifted my ankle, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper as his fingers gripped my calf.
He didn't use cotton pads first. He took a pair of surgical shears and cut away the remaining hem of my black trouser leg to inspect the damage.
"Dropped a tray, did you?" Russo asked, his voice completely flat.
I looked at the wallpaper. "Yes."
Russo picked up a pair of tweezers, dipped them in antiseptic, and dabbed at the jagged red trench running from the back of my Achilles down across the side of my calcaneus.
"Interesting," he murmured. "I’ve seen broken porcelain slice through skin. Leaves a clean, razor-sharp edge. Usually lots of microscopic dust in the subcutaneous tissue." He angled a small penlight directly into the open flesh. "This isn't porcelain. This is serrated metal. Rust residue on the outer dermis. And bruising along the anterior ankle—classic signs of a heavy boot pressing down to hold the joint still while the metal tore."
My breath hitched.
The room went dead silent. Daniel remained stationed by the door, his eyes staring straight ahead, but his posture shifted. His shoulder muscles tensed against the fabric of his suit.
"Hold still," Russo ordered. "I need to flush the debris before I suture. No local anesthetic until I know the nerve isn't severed."
The saline hit the raw nerve endings like liquid fire. A choked sob tore out of my throat before I could swallow it down. My fingernails dug deep into the leather upholstery, tearing through the fine grain. Pain radiated all the way up my spine, blinding and white-hot.
"Breathe through your nose, Emma," Russo said, completely detached from my agony. "Six deep breaths. You’re lucky. Another millimeter deeper and you wouldn’t be walking on that leg for eight months."
I squeezed my eyes shut. In the dark behind my eyelids, all I could see was the concrete floor of the service garage at seven o'clock this morning. The smell of motor oil and cold exhaust. Marcus Hale’s face twisted in rage, his polished dress shoes standing in my blood, his fingers digging into my hair as he dragged me toward the trunk of his Mercedes.
*You say one word to Dominic, and I’ll make sure your little brother’s body washes up in Lake Michigan before midnight.*
"Emma."
The voice didn't belong to the doctor.
It didn't belong to Daniel.
My eyes snapped open.
Dominic Valenti was standing in the doorway of the suite.
He had taken off his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the cuffs rolled back twice over his forearms, revealing the dark, intricate ink of an archangel slaying a serpent running up his left wrist. He held a glass of bourbon in his right hand. The amber liquid didn't ripple.
He wasn't shouting. He didn't look angry.
He looked terrifyingly calm.
Dr. Russo didn't even look up from his work. He tied off the third stitch with practiced precision. "She needs eight sutures, antibiotics, and forty-eight hours off her feet. Tetanus shot is mandatory."
"Give her the shot," Dominic said.
His eyes never left my face. He stepped into the room, his leather shoes silent on the rug, and stopped three feet from where I sat trembling.
"Daniel," Dominic said softly.
"Boss?"
"Where is Marcus?"
"In the downstairs study, sir. Marco and Jimmy are with him. He asked for his coat three times. Said he had an urgent delivery to oversee at the South Loop warehouse."
Dominic took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Did he?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take his phone. Take his car keys. Tell him I’ll be down to hear all about the South Loop warehouse as soon as Dr. Russo finishes fixing my staff."
"Understood." Daniel gave a curt nod and vanished out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
The silence that settled over the room was heavier than the pain in my ankle. Russo worked quickly, the needle biting into my flesh four more times before he applied a sterile pad and began wrapping the wound in snug, white medical gauze.
"All done," Russo said, standing up and stripping off his gloves. He dropped a plastic bottle of pills onto the table. "Painkillers. Take two every six hours. If there's redness spreading up the calf tomorrow morning, call me immediately."
"Thank you, Doctor," I whispered.
Russo nodded once to Dominic. "She’s in shock, Dominic. Heart rate is over one-thirty."
"Thank you, Lorenzo. Good night."
The doctor gathered his case and exited, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Now, it was just Dominic and me.
The master of the house. The man whose name made city councilmen sweat through their shirts. A man who owned half the docks between Chicago and Gary, Indiana.
He dragged a heavy velvet armchair across the floor, placed it directly opposite me, and sat down. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding the glass between both hands.
"You're shaking, Emma."
"I'm cold, Mr. Valenti."
"No," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that made every nerve in my skin prickle. "You're terrified. And you don't strike me as a girl who scares easily. You worked twelve-hour shifts when my father was dying in the east wing last winter. You cleaned up blood after the November hit on our perimeter without blinking. You never complained."
He leaned closer. The scent of expensive sandalwood, smoke, and vintage whiskey washed over me.
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"So tell me," Dominic murmured, "why did Marcus Hale leave half a pint of your blood on the leather upholstery of his car this morning?"
***
