The CEO (Shadowed Sins #1)

Prologue

SIX MONTHS EARLIER . . .

T he forest preserve sits silent around me—a small, welcome sanctuary just outside Chicago’s chaos. When I donated this land to Cook County several years ago, it wasn’t out of the generosity of my philanthropic heart. It was calculated and strategic, like every single decision I make when it comes to my public image.

Now this place is my refuge away from that world, and sometimes even serves as a place to conduct business that pertains to a different world. One where secrecy and loyalty are required above all else. One where a single mistake can end with you begging on your hands and knees at my feet.

I sit motionless in my car that’s parked deep in the shadows, just on the edge of the lot where the tree line meets the asphalt. My fingers run absentmindedly over the worn photograph in my hands, a habit I’ve developed over the last eight years.

“Eight years,” I mumble, recalling the day I took the photo like it was yesterday. The color has dulled over time, yet her face remains just as clear as that day.

Evelina Thorne.

Her face is partially obscured by a long strand of her hair caught in the wind, but it doesn’t completely obscure her features, which are twisted with grief. Her fingers are knotted together, a crumpled tissue in her hands.

And just out of frame: the matching coffins of her parents.

Rain pelts my face as I stand among the distant headstones, camera in hand, lens focused on her face. She doesn’t know I’m here, doesn’t know I exist. Her dress is soaked through, clinging to her frame, but she refuses the umbrella a mourner tries to offer.

The rain mixing with her tears feels right to her. I understand that need for physical pain that matches emotional suffering.

Lightning cracks overhead as she looks up, eyes scanning the cemetery as if sensing my presence. For one heart-stopping moment, our eyes almost meet across the distance, and I duck behind a mausoleum, breath caught in my throat, heart hammering against my ribs. Not yet. She’s not ready to see me. Not yet.

I close my eyes, mentally doing the math.

Eight years, two months, and twelve days.

That’s how long it’s been since Eve’s parents’ lives were stolen from her by my mentor. And that’s how long it’s been since I made the only decision I’ve ever felt contrite over. I didn’t just make sure my mentor walked away after drunkenly ending two lives; I staged another body behind the wheel, making it look like someone had stolen his car and crashed into the Thornes.

It’s the only decision that has ever truly haunted me.

I pinch my brows together as the memory assaults me with an unwelcome, vivid clarity.

“Sir? Sir, look at me.” I softly pat Victor Messini’s face.

Rain lashes against me as I lean inside his Bentley, its crumpled hood smashed into a small compact car. He’s slumped halfway over the console, blood starting to trickle down from his temple.

“Damien?” He slurs my name so thickly, I’m not even confident that’s what he said. “Damien, what are you doing here?” This time there’s no mistake. He looks around his car in confusion, the smell of Scotch rolling off him like he took a bath in it.

“Sir, you called me. You had an accident. We need to get you out of here now.”

As if it all comes rushing back to him, he snaps his head up and squints through his windshield.

“They’re already dead,” he mumbles, struggling to hoist himself out of the car.

“How do you know? Did you check?”

He swats away my help, righting himself.

“No, but if they aren’t, make sure they are.”

I don’t argue. Instead, I walk over to the other car, trying to mentally prepare myself for what I might see inside. Thankfully, this is a back road that doesn’t seem to get a lot of traffic, but I take a quick look around just in case. Then I lean down.

“Well?” Victor’s voice is gruff, and he’s swaying slightly next to his car.

The passenger window is completely shattered, revealing two people inside.

“They’re dead,” I tell him.

“Handle it,” he says before turning and limping toward my car, where he climbs into the back seat.

And I did—efficiently. Making sure to completely erase any shred of his involvement.

I lift the photo closer, studying the angles of her face and the slender curve of her neck. Even in grief, she’s beautiful . . . magnetic. In the days leading up to the funeral, I had spent an unhealthy amount of time watching her. At first it was just out of curiosity, wanting to know who she was. It was the first time I had ever researched a victim.

I convinced myself it was recon—that I needed to know my enemy, keep an eye on her in case she ever decided to do any digging on her parents’ accident. But quickly, it escalated. And somewhere between surveillance and background checks, I fucked up. My curiosity started to become an obsession . . . a dangerous one.

The last time I saw her was that day at the cemetery. Tucked far away among the headstones, I captured her image through my lens. I’ll never forget the feeling that took over me when I studied her face.

Her vulnerability should have disgusted me. Weakness always does. But it didn’t. Instead, it awakened something in me—something I hadn’t felt since I was nine years old—on the day I watched my mother’s life drain from her eyes at the hands of her boyfriend.

My chest tightens again, just like it did the day I first saw her—the same primal urge to possess her rushing through me.

It was that feeling that made me decide to walk away that night. Not guilt or remorse, but fear. Even as I stared at the photo on my computer screen, I knew that it wasn’t just a passing interest I had developed in Eve Thorne. It was the first time I’d felt I could lose control. She made me feel something that in my world could get you killed in a second.

Feelings are a luxury men like me don’t have.

Even now, I wish I could banish the memories of her from my head and free myself from this mental prison I’ve created. I let out a long breath, noticing the pattern on my dashboard created by the sun dancing through the leaves overhead. Although I have my windows up, I can hear the songs of a few birds nearby, a stark contrast to the ever-present darkness surrounding me.

I glance down at the photo one last time. The image of the beautiful woman whose life was forever altered at my mentor’s request. I only ever let myself linger on it for a few moments, afraid that someday I won’t be able to put it away again.

I bring the photo to my nose, as if I’ll be able to smell her through the image, before slipping it back inside my coat pocket. I press it against my chest briefly, the gesture sending an electric current straight through me, radiating from the spot where her name is etched into my skin.

I slip my hand beneath my shirt, fingertips tracing the memorized lines of the tattoo that spans my chest. The ink is a constant reminder—a self-inflicted wound that never heals. Eve. A permanent mark of my weakness.

I tuck it safely inside my coat pocket and turn to start my vehicle, but then movement just across the pond catches my attention. A woman walks slowly along the shoreline, a camera hanging from her neck—something not uncommon in this preserve, especially with the local ornithology club.

Instead of leaving, I watch her for another moment. The wind catches her green scarf, making it dance around her shoulders as she raises her camera to capture something in the distance.

My eyes stay trained on her, but something shifts in my chest the closer she gets. I squint, trying to analyze her features, but she’s still too far away. She snaps a few more photos, then continues walking until she’s close enough that when she turns to reveal her profile, my pulse quickens. A familiar unease starts to rush through my body as I reach for my phone.

“It can’t be,” I say, opening the camera and zooming in on her face. The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I’m hallucinating; I have to be. I close my eyes as if that is going to erase the image of her, but it doesn’t.

“Eve.” Her name falls from my lips like a whispered prayer.

How is this possible?

I continue watching her, unable to pull my gaze away even if I wanted to. She looks slightly different—her face has lost that fullness of youth, her jawline more severe and angled. But her eyes . . . her eyes are just as intense.

Eight years since I’ve felt that familiar pull she created in me.

Eight years since I made the decision to walk away.

I’ve taken over my mentor’s business in that time, growing it from a success to an empire. I’ve become a god in the boardroom and the devil in the underworld.

But seeing her now, all of that carefully constructed control feels like it’s a house of cards, ready to fall at any second.

She pauses, kneeling down by the water as she adjusts her lens. That familiar pull in my chest returns—the feeling of knowing she has no idea I’m here. No idea I’m watching her. No idea who I even am.

A thought that both relieves and disappoints me.

Even though I decided to step away from watching her, I made sure to have my security detail keep a file on her. While I couldn’t trust myself to maintain a safe distance, I wanted to ensure she stayed safe. I don’t check it—I never have—and my head of security, Foster, doesn’t ask questions when I randomly ask about her. He simply provides me with direct answers that don’t offer much detail.

I’ve kept the questions to a minimum over the years, but that doesn’t mean I’m not aware of her situation. I know she studied English in college, graduating with honors. I know she lives in a small apartment in a neighborhood on the West Side. I know she writes obituaries for the Chicago Tribune . . . and I know about her secret investigations.

The investigation into her parents’ deaths that I made sure ended before it began.

The investigation into a local woman who was murdered by a cop, but the police dismissed the case.

I like that about her, even though it presents a danger to me and my secret organization, The Shadows. It’s a danger I’ve managed to keep at bay without much issue at all—so far.

Judging by the way she hunts for justice, she and I are more alike than she can possibly understand. The only difference: I’m willing to settle for vengeance when justice just won’t do.

I reach into my pocket, feeling to make sure the photo is secure in the spot it’s stayed in all these years, directly over the tattoo on my chest that bears her name. It’s my own personal brand I’ve carried for years, hidden beneath the suits and armor of my carefully and meticulously crafted persona.

My phone vibrates against my thigh and I pull it free, seeing Foster’s name on the screen.

“Sir, the members have started to arrive at your estate for the meeting.”

“Tell them I’ll be there shortly,” I say before hanging up.

I allow myself one more minute of watching her. She moves slowly along the shoreline, stopping every so often to snap wildflower photos. The wind whips around her—long, dark hair dancing across her face the same way it did all those years ago.

The compulsive urge to react too soon no longer simmers just below the surface like when I was younger. Now, I understand patience and control. I wait until she’s walked around the pond, far enough out of earshot that she won’t hear the engine turn over when I start the car.

I formulate a plan as I make the drive out to my estate. The first thing I need to know is if this is a regular spot for her. If it is, then I won’t worry about how the fly is going to end up in the spider’s trap; I’ll just create the trap myself.

My mentor taught me a lot, and one of the things I’ve mastered, just like him, is the art of manipulation. The first rule: Let your target think they’re acting of their own free will. Create a circumstance so perfect that it will not only lead her right where I want her, but she’ll think it was her idea all along.

I pull out my phone again, sending a quick message to Foster.

Me: Begin daily surveillance on Eve Thorne immediately. Full detail. No interaction at all. Send me the full file we have on her now.

My thoughts are consumed by her the entire drive back to Eden. Thoughts of slowly bringing her into my world, letting her see what kind of justice I can offer her. This time, though, the obsession doesn’t feel dangerous . . . it feels necessary.

When she finally enters my world, I won’t just possess her body. I’ll own her mind, her heart, her very soul. I’ll strip away every defense, every hesitation, every moral boundary until she’s as consumed by me as I am by her.

The things I’ll do to her . . . I’ve spent eight years imagining them in vivid detail.

The way she’ll tremble beneath my touch, the sounds she’ll make when I bring her to the edge of pleasure and pain, how her eyes will look when she finally surrenders completely.

Within six months, Eve Thorne will walk right into my life of her own accord. Only this time, she won’t be getting away.