Savage Vows (Forbidden Vows #1)

Chapter 1

ADRIANA

The girl walks into the club like she owns the place.

Neon lights ripple over her bare shoulders, her tight black dress catching flashes of purple and gold as she weaves through the crowd. Heads turn. A few men step aside instinctively. A group of women glance up, lips curling in quick assessment, curiosity, envy.

She doesn’t look at anyone, not really. Just moves toward the bar like she has somewhere to be, like she isn’t the loudest thing in the room.

She’s young. Pretty. Confident. The kind of girl a man like him would notice.

And that’s the point.

She’s not me.

No one would notice me here, not with the pounding bass, the sweat-slicked bodies, the lights blinking like strobes against the haze. I’m a shadow at the far end of the bar, nursing a watered-down whiskey in a scratched glass, pretending to scroll through my phone.

And that makes me perfect for a job like this.

She spots me. A flicker of eye contact through the mirror behind the bar. Just a flash of acknowledgment before she turns her back and orders something pink and expensive.

Good girl.

We don’t know each other tonight. We haven’t spent the last three weeks mapping out every exit of this building. We haven’t memorized the mark’s face, habits, favorite drink. We haven’t practiced the signal.

She’s just another pretty distraction.

And I’m the quiet insurance policy sitting ten feet away, ready in case things go wrong. They usually do.

Earlier this week, in Miriam’s crammed, overheated office, I sat across from her desk clutching a folder I knew she wouldn’t like.

She didn’t even open it. Just stared at the cover like it might catch fire.

“Adriana,” she said slowly, “why is there a photo of a man who owns half the nightclubs in the South Loop in your features queue?”

“Because he’s not just a club owner,” I told her. “He’s moving money through charities that don’t exist, buying up real estate under shell companies, and making campaign donations from organizations that have no employees. I checked the filings. It’s textbook laundering.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, I hate when you say things like ‘textbook laundering’ as if we have a legal team on speed dial.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “This is big. Real corruption. Possibly linked to trafficking. And we’re sitting on it because no one else is paying attention.”

“Exactly. No one’s paying attention,” she snapped.

“Because this kind of thing? It’s out of our league.

We’re not The Tribune. We’re a neighborhood paper with a skeleton staff and a printer that eats half our layout.

I hired you to write clean copy about dog rescues and rising property taxes, not run some solo crusade against Chicago’s backroom elite. ”

I didn’t say anything.

Miriam leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Adriana, listen to me. You’re good. Better than your bylines let on. But if you go poking into this, if your name ends up attached to something—someone—dangerous, I can’t protect you. Hell, I won’t even be able to publish you.”

I looked her in the eye and said, “Then I won’t file it through you.”

She exhaled, slumped back in her chair. “Jesus. You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”

“Probably.”

Now, in the sticky glow of the club’s pink-and-blue lights, my phone buzzes in my palm.

Miriam: Don’t tell me you’re still chasing that club story. Adriana, please. Let it go.

I lock the screen and slide the phone back into my jacket pocket. I’m not here to text. I’m here to watch.

Across the room, Julie has found him.

She’s leaning against the mirrored bar now, a stemmed cocktail in her hand, her posture relaxed but alert. The mark, Rafael Serrano—real estate mogul, political donor, and suspected human garbage—has sidled up beside her, grinning like a man who thinks he’s already won.

Good.

Julie’s hair is tucked behind one ear now—her signal to me that she’s made contact. Her laugh floats over the thump of the music as he says something, likely sleazy, possibly illegal.

She doesn’t flinch.

We planned this for weeks. A chance “run-in,” an easy flirtation. Serrano loves beautiful women who don’t ask too many questions.

Unfortunately for him, Julie isn’t here to ask. She’s here to listen.

And I’m here to record.

No one notices me in the corner booth. I’m just another face in the crowd, invisible in the haze, drink in hand, eyes on my phone.

But I’m watching. And I don’t miss the way Serrano’s hand brushes Julie’s waist as he leans in.

Careful, I think.

She knows what she’s doing. But if he touches her again, I may just break protocol.

I shift in my seat just enough to tilt the microphone clipped inside my jacket toward the bar.

We tested it last week in a coffee shop full of screaming toddlers—it still caught every word.

Tonight, with the music pulsing and voices bouncing off mirrors and glassware, I pray it’s still doing its job.

But I don’t just rely on the tech. I watch their mouths. I read their body language. And when Serrano leans in, elbow against the bar, eyes glued to Julie’s lips, I know he’s finally taken the bait.

“I know you,” he says, loud enough that even without the mic, I catch the words. “You’re the one from that gala, right? With the red dress.”

Julie lets out a soft laugh, playing coy. “Maybe. I go to a lot of galas.”

“You were hard to forget.”

She takes a sip of her drink, lets the silence stretch just a little too long before replying. “You’re flattering, Mr. Serrano.”

“Rafa,” he says quickly. “Call me Rafa. Anyone who makes me stop talking mid-speech is allowed to skip formalities.”

Julie touches his forearm, just a fingertip. “Mid-speech, huh? That’s a strong reaction.”

“Only when I’m surprised. And it’s not easy to surprise me.”

He’s leaning in too close now, blocking her in between his arm and the bar. She doesn’t pull away. She lowers her voice just enough that I can’t make out the words. I clench my jaw, but I stay put. This is what she’s trained for.

His answer is clearer. “That depends on the project. Some clients need the whole floor—discreet renovations, flexible schedules, cash options.”

Cash options.

There it is. The sweet spot. I lean forward slightly, pretending to check my phone while I tap the record button, just in case.

Julie tilts her head. “And the nonprofits?”

He pauses for half a beat too long.

“Separate arm of the business. Community engagement,” he says smoothly. “Donations, outreach. You know how it is. Appearances matter.”

My skin prickles. That’s the phrase we found in the emails. Appearances Matter. Always capitalized. A signal.

Julie plays it cool. “Of course. And do you handle that personally, or—”

He cuts her off. “You ask a lot of questions.”

And just like that, I see it—the moment he pivots. A flash of something darker behind the smile. Julie stiffens a fraction, but holds her ground.

“Only because I’m curious,” she says, voice light. “Curious people make good partners.”

He studies her, then chuckles. “And dangerous ones.”

She laughs like it’s a joke. Like her pulse isn’t pounding hard enough for me to feel it across the room.

Serrano flags the bartender and orders another round. Top-shelf. Neat. He’s showing off now, trying to reset the mood. Julie relaxes her shoulders again. She’s back in control—for now.

Serrano tosses back the drink like it’s water.

He’s used to the burn.

Julie laughs again at something he says—I miss the setup, but I catch the punchline: “…and the alderman didn’t even blink. That’s when I knew I had him.”

She smiles like that’s funny. Like corruption’s charming when it comes in a custom-tailored suit.

His hand lingers on her arm now, more deliberate this time. Julie doesn’t flinch. She leans in just a little closer, just enough to suggest interest without inviting assumption.

Serrano lowers his voice. “This place is too loud. You want to go somewhere quieter?”

There it is.

My fingers tighten around my glass. Not because I’m surprised. We expected this. Hoped for it, even. But it’s still hard to stay seated when I see the gleam in his eyes. The kind that says he thinks he’s in control.

Julie tilts her head. “That depends. Where’s quieter?”

He grins. “There’s a private lounge upstairs. My place. Just above the DJ booth. Soundproof. Discreet.”

Julie lifts her brows. “Discreet, huh?”

He laughs, his hand brushing the small of her back. “Best word in the business.”

She hesitates, just enough to be believable, then nods. “Lead the way.”

He sets a few bills on the bar without counting. The bartender sees them, nods once. Serrano turns, confident and smug, expecting her to follow.

She does. But not before glancing back—just once—toward the mirror behind the bar. Her eyes meet mine. No expression, but I read the message loud and clear.

He took the bait. Now move.

I wait a beat before standing. Smooth. Casual. I slip my phone into my coat, the mic still hot, the camera tucked behind a pinhole lens.

Nobody notices me. Why would they?

I’m not the pretty girl in the red heels.

I’m not the man in the leather jacket taking up too much space.

I’m the background. The coat that doesn’t match the scene. The girl no one talks to.

And that’s why I’ll hear everything that matters.

I trail them from a distance, weaving through the crowd like I’m looking for someone—like I’m drunk and bored and not burning with adrenaline.

They disappear behind a velvet curtain near the stairs. A bouncer stands there, arms crossed, pretending not to watch.

I circle left, toward the staff corridor. We mapped the whole floor plan last weekend, during lunch service. Julie flirted with a bartender while I took photos of every exit.

The service stairwell is narrow, lit by a flickering bulb. I climb quickly, silently, pausing just outside the upper floor. I can hear them, barely. A low murmur. A laugh.