Chapter 8
My body still throbs in places that make focusing impossible, each step a reminder of Remy’s hands on my skin.
The morning sun filters through the penthouse windows as I make my way to the kitchen, desperate for coffee and silence to sort through the chaos in my head. Last night floods back in vivid detail—the shower’s steam, the cold tile against my back, Remy’s mouth hot on my neck.
I shouldn’t have let it happen. But the tension had been building since that kiss in my studio and when I’d stepped into that shower, trying to escape thoughts of him…
God. The way he’d followed me in, pressing me against the wall.
His hands had been everywhere, possessive and demanding.
I’d fought him at first, but resistance crumbled under the assault of his touch, his teeth grazing my shoulder as the water poured over us.
The bruises on my hips ache with each step, souvenirs of how he’d lifted me, pinning me in place while—No. I need to stop reliving it. I need to remember why I’m here and what’s at stake. But my treacherous mind keeps circling back to the fierce possession in his eyes as he—
I pause just outside the kitchen entrance, coffee forgotten as memories flood back. His mouth on my neck, fingers digging into my hips, my back pressed against the cold tile as steam swirled around us—
No. Focus.
But the sensations linger—his teeth grazing my shoulder, my nails scoring his back, the way he’d growled my name against my ear.
It had been rough, desperate, exactly what I needed and everything I shouldn’t have wanted.
We’d started with me trying to get myself off alone and ended with him storming in, ripping back the shower curtain, still fully dressed.
The look in his eyes had made me freeze, caught between fear and desire.
I touch my neck where he marked me, remembering how he’d claimed my mouth before I could protest, one hand tangling in my wet hair while the other—
“Sleepwalking in the hallway, Eve?”
Remy’s voice snaps me back to reality, and I step forward and enter the kitchen. He’s at the kitchen island, watching me with dark eyes that see too much. An older man in an expensive suit stands beside him, analyzing me with military precision. I don’t recognize him.
“Sleep well?” I swear I could see a smirk on his mouth.
I force my features to be neutral, ignoring how my body responds to Remy’s presence. Last night was a mistake. A hot, incredible mistake that has my thighs pressing together at the memory, but still a mistake.
“Like the dead,” I lie, my voice steady despite the flush I can feel creeping up my neck. “Though the shower pressure could use some work.”
Remy’s jaw tightens. He knows exactly what I think of his shower pressure. He sits at the island, perfectly composed in a tailored suit, looking nothing like the man who’d made me scream his name hours ago.
“Eve.” Remy’s dark gaze rakes over my sleep shorts and t-shirt. “Join us.”
“I just need coffee,” I manage, fighting the heat in my cheeks.
“Allow me to introduce Marcus, head of security.” Remy’s smile holds an edge. “He’ll be looking after you as I will be unavailable for most of the day. If you need anything, his number is in your new phone.”
The words land like a carefully crafted threat. I meet Marcus’s analytical stare with practiced neutrality, even as my skin prickles under his assessment. Everything about him screams professional observer—from his precise posture to his sharp eyes that seem to catch every micro-expression.
Great. Another set of eyes watching my every move. As if Remy’s surveillance wasn’t enough.
I reach for the coffee maker, grabbing a mug. The weight of their stares burns into my back. Remy’s presence fills the space like a physical force, making the kitchen feel smaller with each passing second.
“Black coffee still your preference?” His voice carries that infuriating hint of intimacy.
“Some things don’t change.” I keep my tone neutral, though my pulse quickens as his footsteps approach.
“Others do.” He moves closer, and I grip the counter’s edge. “Like your tendency to run.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“For now.”
The heat of his body radiates against my back before he even touches me. I should move. Should maintain distance. Instead, I’m frozen as his hands settle on the counter, caging me in.
“Sir, the reports—” Marcus starts.
“Can wait.” Remy’s breath fans across my neck.
My body betrays me, leaning back slightly. His expensive suit brushes against my bare legs and memories of last night flash hot and vivid through my mind. Before I can steady myself, he spins me around.
His kiss isn’t gentle. It’s possession, pure and calculated, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me. He tastes like coffee and control, and damn him, I respond. My hands fist in his lapels, torn between pulling him closer and shoving him away.
My mind screams to remember my purpose and my plans, but my body arches into him. He deepens the kiss, and I barely suppress a moan. This is what he wants—to show his power, to remind me I’m at his mercy. The worst part is how effectively it’s working.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with triumph. Without a word, he straightens his tie and strides out, leaving me breathless and unsteady against the counter. His footsteps echo across the marble floor, each step punctuating his victory with Marcus on his heels.
I force myself to meet Marcus’s knowing look, fighting the heat in my cheeks.
I stalk back to my room, coffee clutched like a lifeline, trying to scrub the sensation of Remy’s lips from my mind.
The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, marking his territory in front of Marcus like some alpha predator.
My skin still tingles where he touched me, and I hate how my body responds to the memory.
Settling on the bed, I survey the cameras dotting my room like electronic eyes. The thought of being watched while I sleep, while I dress, while I… My jaw clenches. To hell with this.
“You want a show, Remy?” I mutter, surging up from the bed. “Here’s your entertainment.”
I grab my desk chair, dragging it across the floor with deliberate noise. The first camera comes down with a satisfying crack as I rip it from the wall. Then another. And another. Each one feels like a small victory, a middle finger to his control.
“Enjoy the view now, you controlling ass.”
My hands shake slightly as I lower myself back onto the bed, but not from fear. Adrenaline courses through me, mixed with fierce satisfaction. Let him come storming in. Let him try to explain why I shouldn’t have privacy in my own damn bedroom.
The laptop balanced on my knees, I begin my careful dance.
My fingers move with practiced casualness across the keys, each stroke precise despite appearing random.
The hidden partition inside the memory card I’d prepared activates silently—my own little secret in plain sight.
The screen splits, maintaining the facade of mundane work emails while granting me access to what really matters.
My pulse quickens as I reach for Roberto’s USB.
Everything rides on what’s contained here, keeping this moment hidden from Remy’s watchful eyes.
The security protocols I’d established begin their quiet work, routing through VPNs, scrambling my digital footprint into white noise so they don’t have a clue of what’s on my screen.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, watching the encryption processes run. Every second feels like an eternity, each small progress bar a testament to my nerves.
The coffee sits forgotten on the nightstand, growing cold as I work. But I can’t risk taking my attention away from the screen; I can’t risk missing a single detail that might compromise everything I’ve worked for. The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes me freeze, but they pass by.
The encrypted message from Roberto loads painfully slowly, each second stretching my nerves thinner. His familiar coding style appears line by line:
“E—Witness secured but scared. Former board member of Montoni Shipping. Claims direct knowledge of the operation.”
My hands tap lightly over the keys. A board member. Finally, someone from the inside willing to talk. The next segment loads:
“He knows. He’s been watching the investigation closer than we thought. Sources say he’s cleared his schedule and canceled board meetings. He’s fixated on finding our witness.”
Bile rises in my throat. Ano, Ano Montoni. My father. The man who taught me to ride a bike, who read me bedtime stories, who built an empire on the broken backs of trafficked women. The same man who would do anything to keep his crimes hidden.
“He’s hired new people, E. Not just local muscle. Professional cleaners. Be careful who you trust. Even your old contacts might not be safe anymore.”
My gaze darts to the door. Remy. Did my father reach out to him? The timing of his help seems too convenient now. But if Ano had hired him, wouldn’t I already be in my father’s grasp?
The final segment appears:
“The shipping manifests match. Three vessels, twelve ports, hundreds of women. All connecting back to Montoni subsidiaries. Your father’s signature on every document. This goes deeper than we imagined. The witness claims Ano personally oversaw—”
A sound in the hallway makes me freeze. I quickly close the partition, heart hammering. The footsteps pass, but the sick feeling in my stomach remains.
I lean back, processing Roberto’s words. The investigation I’ve pursued for months, the trafficking ring I’ve tracked across continents—it all leads back to my father. Ano Montoni, Chicago’s respected businessman, philanthropist, and my own personal nightmare.
My throat constricts as I remember the women I’ve interviewed. Their haunted eyes, their broken spirits, their stories of abuse and exploitation. All while my father sat in his high-rise office, signing documents that sealed their fates.