Chapter 9
The city sprawls beneath my feet like a conquered kingdom, but for the first time in years, I’m not the one in control. And I hate it.
The destroyed cameras in Eve’s room flicker on my security feed—black screens that mock my authority. My jaw clenches. She knew exactly where they were and tore them out, even those that were hidden from sight. She didn’t know I had turned them off, at least temporarily.
My phone buzzes. Marcus’s hourly security update.
“Sir, the damage assessment is complete. She took out six cameras in total.”
“Cost?”
“Forty thousand. Custom hardware.”
I end the call, jaw tight. The feeds on my monitors mock me—black screens where there should be crystal-clear surveillance. Eve’s empty room stares back at me, a testament to her defiance.
My fingers trace the cool glass. “Clever girl.”
The words escape before I can stop them. I shouldn’t admire her cunning. Shouldn’t respect how precisely she identified and neutralized my security measures. And I absolutely shouldn’t remember how she felt against me hours ago, her body arching—
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The new security measures are ready for installation.”
I adjust my titanium watch. “Hold off.”
“Hold off?” The surprise in his voice grates against my nerves.
“You heard me.” My reflection stares back at me—tie perfectly straight, suit immaculate. But beneath that polished exterior, Eve’s touch still burns against my skin. The memory of her defiance, her calculated submission—it strips away my practiced control, leaving me raw.
The intercom crackles again. “There’s something else. We found traces of an encrypted signal from the guest room last night.”
Of course. Even now, she’s three steps ahead, playing her own game while I’ve been distracted by the feel of her beneath my hands.
“Let it be,” I say, surprising myself. “For now.”
Movement flickers across my security feed. Eve. She prowls my kitchen like a caged animal, her restless energy radiating through even the distant footage. I lean closer to the monitor, watching her precise movements with an intensity that surprises me.
“Careful, little journalist.” The words slip out as her fingers brush her collar again—that telling gesture I’ve cataloged along with her other unconscious habits. She’s planning something. The thought sends a surge of possessive anger through my chest.
The leather of my chair protests as I shift forward, unable to look away, glad that one camera in this area had evaded her rampage.
Even through under surveillance, she commands attention.
Her shoulders carry tension in clean lines, and her eyes keep darting to the cameras—quick, professional sweeps that betray her awareness of being watched.
The coffee pot rattles slightly in her grip as she pours, her usually steady hands betraying the slightest tremor. I trace her outline on the screen, remembering how those hands felt against my skin just hours ago.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The Hong Kong investors are waiting.”
“Push it back.” My eyes stay locked on Liv as she brings the mug to her lips, her throat working as she swallows. Everything about her screams preparation—the controlled breathing, the measured steps. She’s gathering herself for something.
“Sir, Mr. Chen specifically requested—”
“I said push it back.” The edge in my voice silences any further protest.
Liv sets down her mug with deliberate care. Her fingers drum once, twice against the counter—another tell. The urge to go upstairs and confront her claws at my chest. To demand answers, to pin her against that counter until she reveals every secret she’s keeping.
“Trying to protect you might be the death of me,” I murmur, watching her move through my kitchen with growing familiarity. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it sends a dark thrill down my spine.
The sight of her in my space, surrounded by my security, should feel like victory. Instead, it feels like standing on the edge of an abyss, knowing I’m about to fall.
I barely register the door opening as Marcus enters, my attention fixed on the security feeds. Eve’s movements in the kitchen have my complete focus—the careful way she tests the drawers and her seemingly casual glances at corners where cameras might hide.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice pulls me back. He carries a thick manila folder, and his usual mask of indifference shows cracks of concern.
“What did you find?”
He places the folder on my desk. “Not enough. Her digital footprint is too clean. Bank records, social media, phone records—all carefully crafted. Basic enough to seem real, deep enough to withstand casual scrutiny.”
My fingers drum against the mahogany. “She’s not trained for this.”
“No formal training, but—” Marcus spreads out several surveillance photos. “She’s learned adaptation the hard way.”
The images tell a story that tightens my chest. Liv crouched behind rubble in Syria. Liv speaking to a group of women outside a factory in Bangladesh. Liv sharing cigarettes with armed men in Kosovo.
“She gets close to her targets,” Marcus continues.
“Uses her perceived vulnerability to gain trust. This one—” He taps a photo of Liv sitting across from a middle-aged man in an expensive suit.
“Turkish diplomat involved in human trafficking. She spent three months building his trust before exposing his operation.”
“Human trafficking?” The words taste bitter.
“It’s become her focus lately. She’s tracked rings across Europe, following supply chains, money trails.” Marcus hesitates. “Sir, there’s more. We found a connection to Roberto Mutini.”
The name hits like ice water. “The journalist? The one who specialized in sensational news?”
“They’ve had regular contact over the past year. Encrypted channels, dead drops, the works.”
I lean back, studying Liv on the monitor. She’s sitting at my kitchen counter now, laptop open, the picture of innocence. But I know better. Every casual move is calculated, and every seemingly random glance has a purpose.
“Focus on Mutini,” I order. “I want to know exactly what information they’re trading.”
“Already on it.” Marcus gathers the photos but leaves one—Liv in a bullet-scarred building, camera in hand, determination etched into every line of her face.
Marcus’s phone buzzes, interrupting my study of Eve’s surveillance feed. His expression shifts—subtle, but enough to catch my attention.
“Sir, Mr. Montoni is in the lobby. He’s demanding to see you.”
My muscles coil instinctively. Ano Montoni. The bastard has balls showing up here after I explicitly denied his request for a meeting this morning.
“He’s already in the elevator,” Marcus adds, his tone carrying a hint of apology.
I straighten my tie, muscle memory from countless confrontations with men who think their money makes them untouchable. “Let him come.”
The door opens, and expensive cologne floods the room—Clive Christian No. 1, if I’m not mistaken. Ano steps in with the practiced confidence of old money, but I catch the microscopic tremor in his right hand as he declines Marcus’s offer of a drink.
His eyes dart around my office—left corner, windows, security cameras, exit. The movement is almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The behavior of prey, not predator.
“Remy.” His voice carries fake warmth that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I apologize for dropping in unannounced.”
“No, you don’t.” I keep my tone flat, watching him settle into the chair across from my desk. His movements are too precise and too controlled. He’s overcompensating and trying to project strength.
Morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the slight sheen of sweat above his upper lip.
His makeup is expertly applied, but it can’t quite hide the sleepless nights etched around his eyes.
The great Ano Montoni looks more like a cornered animal than the ruthless businessman Chicago’s elite fears.
I remain standing, letting the silence stretch. It’s a simple power play, one he recognizes judging by the slight tightening around his mouth. His manicured fingers drum once against his knee before he forces them still.
“We need to discuss—”
“No.” I cut him off, my voice carrying just enough edge to make him flinch. “What we need to discuss is why you’re in my office after I explicitly told your assistant this morning that I don’t take unscheduled meetings.”
Ano’s composure slips as he leans forward. “I need you to handle a situation.”
“You need?” I raise an eyebrow. “Forcing your way into my office suggests you’ve forgotten how this works.”
“This is time-sensitive—”
“And your disrespect makes me distinctly disinclined to help.” I keep my voice measured and controlled. “Get out.”
Color floods his face. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“I understand perfectly. You think your money buys you the right to demand my time.” I adjust my cufflinks. “It doesn’t.”
“Listen to me, you arrogant bastard.” He stands, jabbing a finger at my chest. “My shipping company is under investigation. Some bitch is digging where she doesn’t belong.”
I catch his wrist before he can make contact. “Touch me again, and you’ll leave with fewer fingers than you arrived with.”
He jerks back, but his eyes burn with desperate fury. “You work for me.”
“I work for whoever I choose.” My smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “And right now, you’re making a compelling case for why that shouldn’t be you. Ever again.”
“You’re just another hired gun,” he snarls. “A glorified clean-up boy playing at power.”
“And yet here you are, begging for my help.” I circle my desk slowly.
I pause, my hand hovering over the intercom to call security.
Something’s wrong. In the decade I’ve known Ano Montoni, I’ve never seen him lose control like this.
He’s always been calculated and cold—a shark in designer suits who strikes with precision.
This desperate man before me is something else entirely.