Chapter 11
I grip the phone tighter, Eve’s voice filling the interior of the Audi. Each word drips with venom, but it’s the undercurrent of hurt that twists something inside my chest. Twenty million. The number hangs between us like an accusation.
The voicemail plays again. I can’t stop myself from hitting repeat, each word like a blade between my ribs.
“Twenty million. That’s what I’m worth, apparently.” Eve’s laugh cuts through the Audi’s interior. “Did you negotiate the price up? You always were good at getting the best deal.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. The tracker’s signal flickers on Marcus’s tablet, each lost second another weight on my chest. Rain hammers against the windshield, obscuring the empty streets.
“You know what’s really hilarious, Remy?
” The pain beneath her mockery tears at something I thought I’d buried years ago.
“Your twenty million payday is about to freeze to death. Not taken out by your skilled operatives or Ano’s hire hands—no, done in by industrial refrigeration. That’s just… that’s just perfect.”
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice breaks through my focus. “Multiple 911 calls about gunfire near the restaurant.”
The timing. The desperation in her voice. The fading tracker signal. My carefully maintained control slips as the pieces slot together. She actually believes I’d take Ano’s contract. That I’d—
The phone creaks in my grip. “Drive faster.”
“Take Lawrence Avenue.” I tap the dashboard screen, marking alternate routes as Marcus navigates through the downpour. “Faster.”
“Already pushing ninety, sir.” Marcus’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
The tracker signal pulses weakly on the tablet. I replay her words in my head, dissecting each bitter syllable. Twenty million. The sum Ano dropped on my desk with such casual cruelty.
“She knew.” The realization hits like a physical blow. “She knew about Ano’s contract.”
Marcus takes a sharp turn, tires fighting for grip on the wet asphalt. “How?”
The pieces slot together with sickening clarity. Liv came to me for protection, yet she’d been ready to run from the start. Planning her possible escape, preparing for the moment I’d choose Ano’s money over her life.
“Sir?” Marcus’s question hangs in the air.
“She must have learned about Montoni’s proposition. It’s the only thing that makes sense. She thinks I’d take the contract. That’s why she ran. She thought—”
I break off, something raw and uncomfortable clawing at my chest.
“But she came to you first,” Marcus observes, cutting through another yellow light. “Why risk it?”
The question crashes against others, spinning through my mind. Why me? Why take the chance?
I check the signal again, watching it fade in and out. The cruel irony of it threatens to crack my careful control.
“Next right,” I order, shoving down the unfamiliar ache in my chest. “And Marcus? Break every traffic Hunt you need to.”
“Kill the headlights.” I lean forward, studying the shadowed storefronts. “Take Brighton.”
Marcus complies without question, the Audi gliding silently through the darkness. The tracker’s signal stabilizes briefly, and I check the coordinates against the building layout I’d memorized years ago.
“Restaurant has three exits.” I pull up the city planning records on my phone. “Main entrance, kitchen delivery, and a connection to the adjacent building’s basement.”
“Security cameras?”
“Two outside. Basic system.” My jaw tightens as I spot a black SUV parked haphazardly near the restaurant. “Stop here.”
Marcus eases the car to a halt behind a dumpster, one building away from the Mighty Dragon. The neon sign flickers weakly, its red glow reflecting off puddles of rainwater.
“No movement inside,” Marcus observes, checking his tablet. “Tracker shows she’s in the back, near—”
“The kitchen.” Her words echo in my head: Done in by industrial refrigeration. That’s just… that’s just perfect.
Distant sirens pierce the night. We have minutes, maybe less.
“Time’s up.” I open my door silently, rain immediately soaking through my suit. “If you see Ano’s cleaners…”
“No witnesses,” Marcus confirms, already moving toward the delivery entrance.
Twenty million. Her voice haunts me, bitter and resigned. As if I’d ever—
I push through the rain, weapon drawn, moving silently toward the restaurant’s back entrance. The door hangs open, inviting darkness beyond. Thin wisps of smoke curl through the gap, carrying the acrid scent of gunpowder.
My breath catches. Roberto Mutini’s body lies just inside, sprawled face-down on the grimy tiles.
One clean shot to the back of the head—professional, efficient.
No passion, no rage, just cold execution.
These aren’t common thugs. These are Ano’s cleaners, the kind of men who treat murder like accounting.
“Perimeter,” I order Marcus, who immediately moves to secure our position.
I crouch beside Roberto, analyzing the scene with practiced detachment. Minimal blood spray suggests close range. The position of his arms, the way he fell—he was running. Not from a fight. No defensive wounds, no signs of struggle. He was trying to reach something. Or protect someone.
The nearest security camera hangs lifeless, its wires precisely cut. Not ripped out in panic, but disabled with tactical efficiency. Ex-military, most likely. The kind of men who plan exits before entries and never leave witnesses.
Rising slowly, I spot the kitchen door. An overturned chair blocks the threshold, and a metal table is knocked askew beside it. Unlike Roberto’s execution, this shows haste. Urgency.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice carries from the shadows. “Two more cameras disabled. Surgical cuts, both of them.”
I move toward the kitchen, piecing together the scene. Roberto running. The chair knocked over. The table pushed aside. All leading to—
Was Roberto trying to reach her? Or trying to hide her?
I reach the walk-in freezer, my composure slipping at the sight of the industrial shelving unit blocking the door. Metal groans as I grab the edge, but it barely shifts.
“Marcus.” My voice comes out harder than intended.
He’s already moving to help, but the shelving unit refuses to budge. Sirens wail closer, their pitch rising with my pulse.
“Eve!” I slam my palm against the door. No response.
The metal shelf scrapes against concrete as we struggle with its weight. Years of maintaining perfect control fracture with each second of silence from inside that freezer.
“Eve, answer me.” The command in my voice can’t mask the undertone I’m failing to suppress.
Marcus braces his shoulder against the shelf. “Sir, we need—”
“Push harder.” The words scrape out between clenched teeth.
Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cold air seeping through the door’s seal. The shelf shifts inches at a time, each movement too damn slow.
“Eve!” My fist connects with the door again.
The sirens are deafening now. We have minutes, maybe less. My careful planning, my calculated moves—none of it matters if she’s—
No. I shut down that thought.
“There,” Marcus grunts as we finally create enough space.
I wedge myself between the shelf and wall, yanking at the freezer’s handle.
Arctic air hits me like a physical blow. The overhead light flickers, casting harsh shadows across steel racks and frost-covered boxes. My breath clouds in front of me as I scan the space.
She’s crumpled against the far wall, unmoving. Her skin has taken on a bluish tint that stops my heart for a beat. Her lips, usually ready with a sharp retort, are colorless and still.
“Eve.” Her name comes out raw as I cross to her in two strides.
My hands shake—actually shake—as I press fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. The seconds stretch like years as I wait, pray, for that flutter of life beneath my touch.
“Sir.” Marcus’s voice seems distant. “First responders, one minute out.”
I barely hear him. Everything narrows to the cold skin under my fingertips and the deafening silence of my own heartbeat.
“Come on, Eve.” The words escape before I can stop them. “Don’t you dare—”
I feel it—the faintest flutter beneath my fingers. Relief crashes through me with such force I almost stagger.
“She’s alive.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears.
I shed my suit jacket, wrapping it around her frozen form. Her skin is ice against mine as I lift her, cradling her close to share what warmth I can. Her head lolls against my chest, dark hair dusted with frost.
“Marcus, clear the path.”
He moves ahead of me, speaking rapidly into his comm unit as I carry Liv through the kitchen and out.
If I lose control now, I lose everything.
I cradle Liv closer as Marcus yanks open the Audi’s door. Her skin still feels like ice against mine, each shallow breath a reminder of how close we cut it. Sliding into the back seat with her head in my lap, I bark orders at Marcus.
“Drive. Take Washington to avoid the response teams.”
The engine roars to life as Marcus executes a precise three-point turn. I keep two fingers pressed to Eve’s neck, counting each weak pulse. Her dark lashes flutter against pale cheeks, lips moving in silent words I can’t decipher.
“Vital signs?” Marcus catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
“Weak but steady.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears. “Push it faster.”
Liv stirs, a small sound escaping her throat. My hand tightens around her shoulder instinctively before I can stop myself. Get it together, Harding.
“Roberto…” The name slips from her blue-tinged lips.
“Don’t try to talk.” The command comes out sharper than intended.
Sirens fade behind us as Marcus weaves through side streets. Red and blue lights paint the wet pavement, each flash a reminder of the chaos we’re leaving behind. Roberto’s body. The disabled cameras. The professional execution screams of Ano’s methods.
Eve’s head shifts in my lap, eyes cracking open briefly. The confusion in her gaze hits me harder than it should.
“Hospital?” Marcus asks, taking a corner too fast.
I watch Eve’s eyes drift closed again, my jaw clenching. “No. Too exposed. Take us home. Have my doctor meet us there.”
Home. The word echoes strangely. When did my penthouse become “home” in relation to her?
Liv mumbles something incomprehensible, her fingers weakly grasping at my shirt. The gesture sets off an unfamiliar ache in my chest that I refuse to examine too closely.
Protecting her wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The thought ambushes me as I brush frost from her hair. This was meant to be strategic. Professional. Instead, I’m sitting here with my pulse racing every time her breathing hitches.
“Take a few detours,” I tell Marcus, needing to focus on something concrete. “We need to—”
Eve’s eyes flutter open again, meeting mine for a brief moment. The look cuts through every defense I’ve built, and I realize with stark clarity that I’m already in too deep.
This isn’t just business anymore. The admission terrifies me more than any cleaner’s bullet could.