Chapter 17 CITY OF GHOSTS
Present: Chicago
After the ceremony, Elias called for a car, and it took us straight to the airport, where a private jet was waiting. I asked him why we were moving to Chicago, and he only replied with two clipped sentences.
“Not your concern. Do as you’re told.”
Anger burned through my veins. But what should I expect from the man who kidnapped me?
The plane ride was thick with silence. I refused to talk to him—my new husband—and he, likewise, didn’t engage with me. My heart was heavy, my mind cluttered with fragments of the life I’d just left behind.
I wasn’t ready.
Moisture gathered in my eyes as I thought about my family—my brothers, all four of them, even though they drove me crazy with their overbearing ways. Their wives, the best girlfriends I’d ever had. My half sisters. The nieces and nephews I adored and would give up my life for in an instant.
There’s grief and heartache when you’re forced to say goodbye before you’re ready.
But that’s life. If I could turn back time, if I knew this was coming, I would still make the same choice.
I would protect my family at all costs.
A town car was waiting when we landed. Men in dark suits, hands hovering near their guns, stood guard next to it. They loaded our luggage into the trunk. I could’ve sworn I heard an animal mewling.
I must be going out of my mind.
Now, I sit in the back of the dark vehicle beside my silent husband, barely registering their clipped conversations. He’s reading a book, his finger tracing the words slowly. If this were a normal occasion with a stranger, I’d ask what he was reading.
But it isn’t. He ignores me, and I do the same.
But I feel him. Elias.
I feel his heat, the strength radiating from his body, even though he hasn’t said a word to me.
His attention presses against my skin like a physical touch. His gaze bores into the back of my head as I stare out the window. And I smell him too—vetiver and dry smoke, a scent uniquely his. I know how soft his lips can be, how fire burns inside a seemingly cold man.
I wish I could say I hated it—this strange awareness of the man who’s my enemy. But in this city, far from home and the people I love, Elias’s presence brought me comfort.
It’s twisted. Sick. Fucked up. But at least I’m not alone.
The skyscrapers blur past the window. It’s been years since I’ve been to the city.
My hands are clammy. I have a goal in mind, but now that I’m actually here, I don’t know how to go about accomplishing it.
One step at a time, Lana.
The car slows. We turn into a neighborhood that has seen better days. Barren trees lined the streets; Gothic facades sagged with age. Storefronts are half-boarded up, dirty puddles pooling on the ground. A heavy fog cloaks the distance. I can barely see five feet out the window.
Saints Hollow.
The neighborhood used to be rich, or so they say. But the Spanish Flu in the early nineteen hundreds took most of its residents. Over the years, new migrants would come, but no one stayed, leaving only a husk of what could’ve been a beautiful area on the outskirts of the city.
I’ve been here before, almost twenty years ago. Kian lived here.
The air still smells of rust and rain with a tinge of engine grease, the same scent that clung to his jacket when he first kissed me.
I remember convincing my family to let me do a year of boarding school in Chicago after the spring break when I met him. The school had the best debutante program. Never too early to network, right?
I had spent every free moment with him.
When we walked these streets, Kian would grip my hand, tugging me against him, making sure I was safe. He’d make me walk on the side of the buildings, away from the traffic, because he was thoughtful that way.
He used to tell me, “This neighborhood isn’t for a girl like you. You belong in places like Ashbourne Heights.” Because I could get the best of the best there—imported cars, houses with butlers, everything gleaming and new.
But I didn’t want Ashbourne Heights. I came from a world like that. What I wanted was to be with him.
Green eyes, the color of four-leaf clovers, meet mine.
“Really? And why is that?” He smiles, baring one small dimple.
I nudge him, my cheeks heating. “Who’d take me to play with kittens at the shelter? Or listen to my wild theories about ghosts in our rose garden back home?”
“Kittens, huh? So that’s all I’m good for.”
“Shut up.” I grin. “Someday you’d open a vet office, and I’d play with kittens all day long.”
He chuckles, his straw-blond hair falling over his eyes. Tentatively, I brush it back. His dark roots are showing. I wonder how he’d look with his natural color.
“You know, you’re quite pretty.”
He groans. “That’s the last thing a guy wants to hear.”
“Pretty boy.” I laugh and drag my finger over his smooth skin. How did he escape getting pimples?
My phone buzzes.
Headmistress Larkin
Car service in half an hour. Debutante’s ball. Wear the blue.
I grip my phone, stare at the message, then turn it off.
“You need to run.” He sounds forlorn.
“Nope. Going to miss it.”
His head jerks. “But you’ll get into trouble.”
“Maybe I want to.” I smile at him, ignoring the guilt about flaking on a high-society event. “Maybe I want you to teach me how to sew and show me how to ride on your bike’s handlebars.”
Kian laughs, glancing at his rusted black bicycle. Then his face turns serious.
“You should go,” he murmurs, his eyes sad. “You don’t belong here with me. I can’t give you anything.”
“You’ve already given me everything.” I press my hand over my heart.
His breath hitches, his beautiful eyes flaring with something deep and dark.
Slowly, he brings his hand up and cups my face.
I shiver.
He swallows, clearly mistaking my tremble for me being cold, and shrugs off his jean jacket.
“No—it’s freezing, you’ll be—”
“Shhh. Let me be good at this too.” He slides the jacket over my shoulders and winks.
The past loosens its grip as the car stops. I get out, a gasp lodged in my throat.
A tall, modern building rises in front of me. Three stories of black limestone, thick fog swirling around its exterior, ivy choking the awnings, smothering the many secrets hidden behind its walls. It’s nature’s poor attempt at shielding this fortress from prying eyes.
“Welcome home,” Elias says.
His first words to me since we kissed at the altar.
His gaze is unreadable, jaw tight as the doors open and we step inside.
The house is quiet and gloomy, opulent but sterile. Black marble lines the walls, and there are dark hardwoods and paneling everywhere.
A man materializes to my right—inky black hair, a lock of it grazing a black half-mask covering the bottom half of his face with a cutout for his lips. He’s Asian, and with his tall frame and alert gaze, he reminds me of a superhero. Or a villain.
A subtle smile plays on his lips, as if he can read my thoughts. He takes my luggage and makes his way up the stairs.
Elias pauses at the staircase.
“You can go anywhere except the third floor. That’s off-limits. Ren,” he gestures to the masked man, “will be with you at all times. He’ll give you a new phone with a tracker. Don’t even think about ditching it, because I’ll know.”
Indignation burns inside me. I roll my eyes. “Anything else, O’ Shadow King?”
“You can’t go out. A stroll in the yard is fine, but that’s it.”
I gasp. “You can’t hold me prisoner in here!” The deal was to marry him and stay in the same house, so this is bullshit.
“Watch me.” His face hardens, and he steps toward me. “Don’t even think about disobeying. I’m the king of the underworld for a reason. Defy me, and your brothers die.”
The air between us vibrates with tension.
I shrink against the banister, wondering how I could’ve forgotten what the man did. The violence and bloodshed. Killing people without blinking.
He drops his voice into a menacing whisper. “Everything you do, you must clear it with Ren. Security cameras are everywhere.” He motions to the black domes affixed to the ceiling. “Don’t try anything.”
Then he stalks off, his steps echoing against the marble.
My legs tremble, and I plaster myself against the wall, needing support.
God, I hate this infuriating asshole.
This is temporary. Five more months until I’m thirty-five. Five months to figure out what The Association wants with me. What could my mother have written in her letter? I asked my brothers, and they had no clue either.
But I’ll find out. Because if there’s one thing Lana Anderson isn’t, it’s someone who wallows and cries.
I draw a deep breath, steel my nerves, and start up the stairs. Ren meets me on the second-floor landing and leads me down an equally sterile hallway to the room on the farthest right.
He hands me a phone. A message blinks back at me.
Ren
This is your suite.
I stare at the words on the screen.
“You don’t speak?”
A sharp nod.
“But you can hear.”
Another nod.
Ren
I hear just fine.
He swings open the door to my bedroom.
Like everything else in the house, it’s modern luxury with neutral wallpaper with gold filigree, chrome furnishings, and a simple crystal chandelier.
There’s a king-sized bed with a dove-gray leather headboard and one lavender armchair, similar to the one I have at home, by the bay windows.
Tucked away in another corner is a desk.
Ren hands me a folder. Inside are drafts of press releases for the Berisha and Sons Company about land purchases, building permits, upcoming mergers, earnings reports, and things of that nature.
I’m familiar with these things from my time at Fleur, which unfortunately I had to resign because of my marriage to Elias. It wouldn’t look good to have a C-suite employee married to a known criminal.
Among the issues, it’s been hard to let go of that part of my life—having a career. While it didn’t fill the emptiness inside me, it was something I took pride in.
Ren types on his phone.
Ren
Elias said, “Make yourself useful.” Text me if you have questions. I’m on speed dial two.
The Shadow King has thought of everything, apparently. From the priest, the rings—I stare at the simple diamond wedding band—to now…assignments.
I’d laugh if I weren’t so pissed off.
He hands me a laptop and points to the antique desk in the corner—the only piece of furniture that looks out of place in this otherwise modern room. Something about it seems familiar, but I can’t place it.
Ren
Elias keeps a small team. Hannah, the cook and housekeeper, will meet you later. Don’t try to leave. I don’t like chasing people.
His lips twitch.
Ren
I’m much better at shooting them.
He disappears before I can ask him questions. Who is he? Why does he have a mask on? Where’s Elias going to sleep?
The last question has my pulse reeling.
He’s not expecting a wedding night, is he?
Because if he comes near me, I’ll cut his dick off.
Gritting my teeth, I cross the room to the desk and yank open the drawer, grinning when I find a pair of scissors.
This will do.
I slide it into my jacket pocket.
But then, I notice something on the corner of the desk. A small red box topped with a black bow.
My heart flutters because I know that box.
Geraldine’s Chocolates.
How does he know?
Seriously, Lana, does it matter how he knows? The man probably keeps food logs of everything we eat, the devil.
My stomach growls. I ate nothing the entire flight, and now my biggest weakness is calling my name.
I peel off the lid, biting down a squeal when I see a dozen of their limited-edition champagne roses confections.
The addictive sweetness hits my taste buds, and my mood immediately improves.
But then, I start hallucinating.
“Meow.”
The chocolates are laced. That has to be what’s happening.
There’s no way the cold mobster has this adorable little creature who just wandered out of my walk-in closet like it was waiting for me.
A beautiful calico cat—brown, orange, and black patches. Soft white fur.
“Meow.”
I crouch and offer my hand. It rubs its graceful body against my fingers.
“What are you doing here with the devil?”
Oh! I recall the animal noises I heard in the car. They must be from the cat.
“You know, I saw a cat just like you the other—”
A gasp tumbles out of me. I pick up the feline, looking at her right side, her left, at the very familiar red collar around her neck.
It’s the same cat from the café! The place that burned down.
The cat purrs, knocking me out of my thoughts. How does Elias have the cat?
Confusion bubbles in my chest. I snuggle the cat, relishing its warmth.
And slowly, the tightness in my chest eases. Cat, scissors, chocolates. Things are off to a better start than I originally thought.
First, contact my family.
Then I’ll figure out a plan—a plan that definitely involves the off-limits third floor.