Chapter 3
Power lies in the details. I’ve built my empire on this truth, watching Chicago’s elite dance to my carefully orchestrated symphony.
From my penthouse office, forty stories above the city’s pulsing heart, I observe the night unfold through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city stretches before me, a glittering canvas of possibilities and secrets.
“Your options are limited, Mr. Chen.” I keep my voice level as I speak on the phone. “Either accept the terms as written or find yourself explaining certain indiscretions to your board of directors.”
A pause. Heavy breathing on the other end. “You’re a bastard, Harding.”
“I’m effective. You have until midnight.” I end the call, satisfaction coursing through me as I add another mark to my ledger of victories.
The Mont Blanc pen clicks against my desk as I make notations in the margin of his contract.
Red ink bleeds into the paper, marking my requirements.
Each correction and each amendment represents another thread in my web of influence.
The soft house music floating through hidden speakers provides a steady rhythm to my movements.
My office reflects the order I demand in my life.
Files arranged by priority edge my desk.
Three monitors display surveillance feeds and communications with my team, windows into the lives of those who’ve sought my services.
I’ve spent eight years perfecting this space, this fortress where nothing moves without my knowledge or consent.
The leather chair creaks as I lean back, savoring the moment. Chen will cave—they always do. My reputation ensures it. I’m the man they come to when they need problems to disappear.
My phone vibrates against the polished mahogany, the screen illuminating with an unfamiliar number. I pause, tension coiling in my muscles. My private line is sacred, known only to a select few—each one carefully vetted, each one owing me their loyalty, all with their names or code names.
This is an unknown number. An unknown number means an unknown variable. And unknown variables have no place to be.
I stare at the unknown number, my finger hovering over the screen. Years of careful precautions have taught me to recognize disruptions before they occur. Something in my gut tightens—a warning, perhaps, or intuition born from countless deals gone sideways.
I answer. The silence stretches for two breaths.
“Remy.”
Her voice hits me like a physical blow. Eight years dissolve in an instant, and I’m back in that moment when everything I’d built started to crack. Liv Consoli. The name I’d carved out of my life with surgical precision, only to have it slice through my defenses with a single word.
I move to the window, each step measured and controlled.
Chicago’s lights blur beneath me, but I focus on my reflection—composed, distant, the mask I’ve perfected.
“Ms. Consoli.” Ice coats each syllable. “Eight years of silence, and now you’ve managed to acquire my private number.
I see your investigative skills haven’t dulled. ”
My free hand clenches at my side. Eight years of rebuilding, of reinforcing every wall, every defense.
Eight years of ensuring no one could ever again find the cracks she’d exposed.
The memory of newsprint headlines flashes through my mind: careers destroyed, reputations shattered, secrets exposed. Her secrets. My clients and reputation.
“Always so formal,” she says, that familiar mix of steel and silk in her voice. “Some things never change.”
“And some things should stay buried.” I watch my reflection’s jaw tighten. “What do you want?”
A pause. The sound of traffic in the background tells me she’s moving. Running, probably.
“I need…” She hesitates, and I can picture her expression—that stubborn set to her jaw, the flash in her eyes when she’s cornered. “I need your help.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implications. Liv Consoli asking for help means she’s desperate. Desperate means vulnerable. Vulnerable means leverage. My mind already calculates angles, possibilities, and advantages—a habit I’ve honed to perfection.
“Interesting.” I turn from the window, pacing the length of my desk. “The woman who once declared me ‘a cancer on Chicago’s soul’ now seeks my assistance. The irony is… striking.”
I let her words settle in the air, each second of silence another small victory. Through the window’s reflection, I catch a glimpse of my own smirk—practiced, controlled, the same expression I wore eight years ago when she first walked into my office. Before everything imploded.
“I remember the last time you needed something from me.” My voice remains steady, but memories flash unbidden.
Her lipstick on a wine glass, the rustle of sheets, the morning I woke to find my empire crumbling.
“You played your part beautifully then. The naive journalist, so eager to understand my world.”
“This isn’t about the past, Remy.” Her breath catches—she’s still moving, still running from whatever’s spooked her.
I trace a finger along the edge of my desk.
“You’re being followed,” I state, savoring the words like aged whiskey.
“And now you turn to me for protection.” I pull up her file—photographs, reports, every piece of information I’ve gathered since she vanished all those years ago.
“Tell me, Eve, what makes you think I won’t finish what your pursuers started? ”
“Because you’re curious.” Her voice steadies, and I hate how well she still reads me. “Because whatever drove me to call you is bigger than our history. And if none of those reasons are enough, you would love to be the first to exact vengeance on me.”
My hand tightens on the phone. She’s right, damn her. The curiosity burns beneath my skin, warring with eight years of carefully cultivated hatred. I’ve imagined this moment countless times—her return, her vulnerability, my revenge. But the reality tastes different from the fantasy.
“You destroyed everything I built,” I say softly, dangerously. “Carved up my reputation like a surgeon with a scalpel. And now you expect me to what? Play protector? Be your white knight?”
Her laugh is brittle, desperate. “We both know you’re no knight, Remy. But you are the devil I know.”
“The devil you know,” I repeat, letting the words roll off my tongue. “How poetic. And exactly the kind of manipulation you excelled at.” I move to my bar cart, ice clinking against crystal as I pour myself two fingers of scotch. “Though I must admit, your desperation intrigues me.”
“Remy—”
“No.” I cut her off, asserting control over this unexpected reunion. “You don’t get to dictate terms.”
The scotch burns, grounding me in the present as memories of her threaten to surface. Eight years of calculated moves, of rebuilding my influence brick by brick, yet here she is, throwing chaos into my carefully ordered world again.
“If you want my help,” I say, “you’ll come to my office. Now.”
“That’s not—”
“The Georges Tower. Fortieth floor. Now.” I pause, savoring the moment. “Unless you’re not quite as desperate as you sound.”
Silence stretches between us. I imagine her weighing her options and calculating risks. The thought brings a bitter smile to my lips.
“Tick tock, Eve. My curiosity has a short shelf life.” I move back to the window, watching the streets below. “Whatever’s hunting you won’t wait for you to find a better option. And we both know if you had one, you wouldn’t have called me.”
“You’re enjoying this,” she accuses.
“Immensely.” I don’t bother hiding my satisfaction. “Consider it a down payment on eight years of debt. The choice is yours—face whatever’s out there alone, or face me. At least with me, you know what you’re walking into.”
“Do I?”
“More than most.” I check my watch. “Twenty minutes, Eve. After that, lose my number.”
I hang up before she can respond, preventing her from gaining any semblance of control over the conversation. The scotch burns in my throat as I down the remaining liquid, my reflection fractured in the crystal tumbler.
Setting the glass down, I move to my desk and press the intercom. “Marcus, up the security in the building. I’m waiting for a woman, maybe being followed.” A pause. “And have someone sweep the perimeter, just in case.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eight years. Eight years of methodically erasing every trace of Liv Consoli from my life, from my thoughts. I pull up the security feeds on my monitors, watching the emptying hallways, the lobby, and the parking garage.
The elevator indicator blinks, catching my attention. Someone’s ascending. My pulse quickens, but I force it steady, moving to stand behind my desk.
The security feed shows her in the elevator. Even through the grainy footage, I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way her eyes dart to corners and shadows. She’s scared—genuinely scared. Whatever’s hunting her must be significant to drive her back to me.
The elevator chimes.
The elevator doors slide open, and time freezes.
Liv steps into my domain, a ghost made flesh.
Her black clothing is wrinkled, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders—a far cry from the polished journalist who once dismantled my life.
But those green eyes remain unchanged, already mapping exits even as she tries to maintain her composure.
I stay by the windows, letting the city lights cast my shadow across Italian marble floors. Power lies in stillness, in forcing others to come to you. She takes three measured steps inside, her boots silent on the polished stone.
“Welcome to my domain.” I move toward her, each step deliberate, watching how she shifts her weight, ready to run. The scent of her perfume hits me—jasmine with an undertone of something darker, more primal—and memories surge forward. Nights of wine and half-truths, mornings of betrayal.