9. Eve
Chapter 9
Eve
T he matte black gun sits on my coffee table, its presence transforming my normally cozy apartment into something unfamiliar. I haven’t touched it since setting the box down after returning from Knox Tower. But I can’t stop staring at it—this physical manifestation of a line I’m not sure I want to cross.
What kind of man gives a woman investigating him a gun? The same kind of man who threatens people in forest preserves and heads up secret shadow societies, I suppose. The same kind of man who leaves a trail of dead bodies behind him, each written off as an accident.
The same kind of man I can’t stop thinking about . . . no matter how many warning bells ring inside my head.
My nervous energy is palpable. I try to breathe long and deep with my eyes closed, but every time I do, I picture him in my space—his hand around my throat, his lips hovering so close to mine as his fingers slid so deep inside me, I still ache at the memory. My body hums with excitement, but between my thighs, it aches with a need I already know will only be satisfied by him.
“Or maybe it’s the thought of being on my knees for you while you drip down my chin.”
I close my eyes, remembering the way his body felt against mine, the soft warmth of his breath against my cheek as he whispered dangerous threats. I know it’s all an act from him—just another one of his methods of gaining control and power over me. What pisses me off is that it’s working.
After today, the water I’m treading is far too deep for my liking. Threatening him felt like wielding power, but it’s a power I’m not in control of, and Damien Knox knows that. He’s playing with me like a cat that plays with a mouse for a few hours before ultimately killing it after becoming bored.
I force myself to look away from the gun and turn my focus back to my laptop. The folder I’ve created has expanded significantly since last week. I narrow my gaze when I see a local headline pop up that sends an immediate jolt of panic through me.
“Local man with ties to organized crime found in river. Police have ruled it an active homicide investigation and are looking into all known associates.”
My blood runs cold. I scan through the article as quickly as I can, but there’s little more information other than a number to call if you know anything. It says nothing about Damien Knox or Knox Industries . . . nothing about a shadow syndicate or The Skull, but something in me knows that this is his handiwork.
The timing is too perfect, the execution too clean. Someone most likely orchestrated this man’s death just like the others.
Someone like Damien.
Justice outside legal boundaries. Consequences for actions the system fails to punish.
The implications are clear even through veiled metaphors and hypotheticals. Now, with the gun on my coffee table and the mountain of evidence I’ve been compiling, I can no longer dismiss any of this as coincidence or paranoia.
But the real question is: What am I going to do with this information?
If Damien is indeed involved in this shadow organization, or is leading it, exposing him could bring down a lot more than just a few vigilante operatives. It could also make me a target for anyone else involved in his operations, and I’m confident I wouldn’t survive them. As if he can read my thoughts, a second later, my phone buzzes with a text from Damien.
Damien: I’m happy to train you to use the gun.
I stare at the message, my skin prickling with the realization that Damien is still my biggest threat, and he is most likely watching me.
Is my apartment bugged? My phone compromised? How long has he been watching me? Maybe that’s why he isn’t intimidated by what I know and is encouraging me to keep digging. He knows it’s only ever going to come back to him, and he’s prepared to deal with it . . . to deal with me.
Before I can analyze that disturbing thought, my phone rings, and it’s my boss, Brian. Most likely wondering why I’ve now missed two days of work without a proper explanation.
“Eve!” he barks before I can even offer a hello. “I need you back at your desk tomorrow, or you can clean it out.”
“I’m sorry, Brian. I’ll be there, I promise. I just got caught up with something in my personal life that turned into . . . kind of a thing . . . but I’m handling it.” I close my laptop as if Brian could see what I’ve actually been working on.
“Eve,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping low with a touch of concern, “is this about that thing you mentioned in my office? Pictures you took?”
I hesitate, not sure what I should say, but then it hits me that somebody should know what I’m doing, on the off chance Damien decides I’m a liability he doesn’t want to tolerate any longer.
“I’m working on something important; it’s bigger than just obituaries.”
“This better not be—” He sighs heavily. “Eve, I understand ambition, but you’re treading into territory you have no business entering . . . and you’re doing it without institutional backing, I might add.”
“What if I told you I have actual evidence surrounding four suspicious deaths? Evidence strong enough to justify a formal investigation?”
In truth, I don’t have that much solid evidence. In fact, I only have leads and a hunch, but I also know I’m not wrong. The evidence is there, so I just have to find it.
The silence stretches long enough that I check to see if the call disconnected.
“Brian?”
“I’m here.” His voice is cautious. “Where are you right now?”
“At home. Why?”
“Don’t say anything else, and don’t discuss this over the phone with anyone. Don’t email anything, and don’t save any evidence you think you might have to any shared servers.” The urgency in his tone is unlike anything I’ve heard from him before. “If you have something concrete, and I mean concrete, Eve,” he pauses for dramatic effect, “then bring it to the office tomorrow and we’ll talk in person, off the record.”
He ends the call abruptly, leaving me staring at my phone with renewed unease. I glance at the gun again. The responsible course of action would be to compile the evidence I do have and try to find at least one thing that will make Brian see this as credible.
But what happens if he does think it’s credible? Is this where he steps in and hands my story off to someone else . . . someone he feels is more credible to report on the story while I’m left to return to my safe-yet-unfulfilling job of writing obituaries?
“He wouldn’t do that,” I say the words out loud as if they’re going to convince me, but the truth is, he would do that.
Instead of taking the responsible course of action, I close my laptop and reach for my purse. If Damien is watching me, I need to understand how. If I’m being monitored, I need to know the extent of it. Because if he’s listening to my phone calls, I know damn well he won’t let me make that meeting with Brian tomorrow.
I grab my keys, deciding that the only way I can clear my head at the moment is with a stiff glass of whiskey. But just before I clasp the door handle, I turn back around and look at the gun. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I grab it and stuff it into my purse.
The bar I choose feels crowded for a weeknight, but then again, it’s not my usual crowd, so maybe this is normal. I make my way to the back, grabbing a stool at the far end of the bar. I nurse the whiskey the bartender handed me a moment ago, the burn matching my internal discomfort as I mentally review everything I’ve learned about Damien. The puzzle pieces fit together, I know they do. I just haven’t found the right position yet.
Vigilante justice funded by a corporation and carried out by professionals. The concept sounds horrifying, but the reality is, sometimes legal justice isn’t enough, and many times, there isn’t any justice at all. I find myself considering the cases I’ve encountered where justice wasn’t even considered, including the young woman whose murderer walked free despite the evidence I took to the police. Or my friend Nadine, whose abusive ex received mere probation after putting her in the hospital. Even my parents’ deaths were ruled an accident despite inconsistencies in the police report that haunted me for years.
“Waiting for someone?”
I glance up to find a man sliding onto the barstool beside me. He’s in his mid-thirties, wearing business attire, with carefully trimmed nails and styled hair.
“Just having a quiet drink,” I reply, hoping the dismissal is obvious as I turn back to my glass.
“Seems like a shame for someone as beautiful as you to be drinking alone.” He signals the bartender, ordering a drink before turning back to me. “I’m James, by the way.”
“Not interested, James.” I shift slightly away, making my disinterest physically clear this time.
He laughs, seemingly unbothered by the rejection. He’s probably one of those it’s a numbers game guys—hitting on several women during the night knowing one will eventually give in.
“Fair enough. Just thought a woman under pressure who deals with the dead all day might want some company to cheer her up.”
I freeze, his assessment too on the nose to be a random encounter. Is this one of Damien’s goons?
“Who are you, really?” I ask, abandoning any pretense.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Someone who’s noticed you’ve been asking questions about things better left unexplored.”
The confirmation sends fear coursing through me. Would Damien do this—send a strange man to rattle my nerves and threaten me? Something about it feels off. Not that I have Damien figured out by any means, but this feels . . . different.
“I’m a journalist; it’s my job.”
“Is that what you’d call what you’ve been doing? Journalism?” His posture remains casual, but his voice has an edge. “Looks more like you’re poking into private matters that don’t concern you, without understanding the consequences.”
I glance around, assessing an escape route, potential witnesses, or anything that might provide security if this conversation takes a turn. The bar remains somewhat crowded, which makes me feel a little at ease. Most people, no matter how unhinged, aren’t going to make a scene in a public place like this.
“Did he send you?” I challenge, refusing to be intimidated despite the mounting anxiety in my chest.
“Who? Reeves?” He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath. “That stupid fuck couldn’t find his asshole from his armpit.”
Detective Reeves? What does he have to do with this? Before I can correct him, he continues.
“Chicago has rules—unwritten ones that matter more than whatever you think you learned in journalism school.” He leans closer, his voice dropping further. “But maybe you haven’t learned those rules. Maybe you should learn them—the hard way.”
“You know,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m getting a little tired of veiled threats from men. If you have something to say, James, just say it.”
He eyes me slowly, his gaze dropping down my body then back up with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. “Ya know, for someone who writes about death so often, you seem remarkably unconcerned about becoming the subject of your own profession.”
The threat is explicit now. Whoever this man represents, they clearly want me to stop investigating, but I’m not sure what or who, because if Damien had sent this man, I’d know it. In fact, I’m certain that at this point, Damien wouldn’t send someone. He’d deliver any message directly to me.
“And it’s not a threat.” He shrugs, swallowing down the last of his whiskey. “Consider it an education. Some stories aren’t worth pursuing, no matter how interesting they might seem to you . . . or unjust. ”
I reach inside my purse to pull out my wallet when my hand lands directly on the gun. Panic grips me. I had completely forgotten I’d brought it, but just as quickly, it fades into comfort. Maybe Damien is right: looking into him ruffles more feathers than I realized.
I toss a few bills on the counter, grabbing my things and walking out of the bar before James can say anything further to me. I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes boring into me. It’s only after I’m out of the bar that the full impact of the encounter hits me. I’ve now been threatened by someone who isn’t Damien. Which means he either sent him to warn me, or his organization is more fragmented than it appears from the outside.
Neither option makes me feel particularly safe, but I keep my hand on the cold handle of the gun while I make the walk back to my apartment. Darkness has completely settled over the city, and I anxiously look over my shoulder as I take a left onto a street that has little activity or streetlights, but it’s the quickest way home.
I check my phone, debating whether I should call someone—anyone—to calm my nerves. But there isn’t anyone. Ingrid would only tell me I’m being paranoid, and I can’t exactly explain to her in ten seconds what I’ve been investigating. The whiskey sits uneasily in my stomach, anxiety overriding its calming effects.
That’s when I hear it: the squeaky hinge of the bar door, letting me know someone walked out shortly after me.
It’s fine . . . a good thing. It means there are others out on the sidewalk this late.
But it’s not fine, because a few seconds later, the sound of someone walking behind me—their feet starting to rapidly pick up the pace—sends my anxiety into overdrive. I’m almost halfway home; just another two blocks , I tell myself, too scared now to look back.
Panic rises in my throat as I quicken my steps, mentally cataloging my options. The area around me is a mix of homes and shops that are closed at this hour, but there are no lights on—nothing to reassure me that someone might be home, watching. There’s no police station. No security. Just me . . . and the gun my hand is now wrapped around.
I’m a second away from sprinting the final stretch to my building when a hand grabs the back of my shirt, dragging me into a dark alley.
“Help!” I scream, but a hand clamps around my mouth.
“Shut the fuck up, you dumb bitch,” the man grits out, shoving me hard against the brick wall. I lift my arm to stop my head from hitting the wall, and my knees scrape against it as I tumble to the ground.
“Who are y?—”
“Shut up!” he barks again, pulling a knife from his pocket and pointing it down toward me. “You don’t get to talk anymore. You don’t get to ruin people’s lives!” He gestures at me with the knife, spit flying from his mouth as he snarls at me.
I blink a few times, and his face comes into focus. For the first time, I recognize him.
Oh my God. His name isn’t James. It’s Kurt Ivy—the man who murdered Tia Fellows. The man I begged the police to look into, but they wouldn’t . . . because he was one of them.
“I didn’t ruin your life,” I choke out around tears I didn’t even realize were tumbling down my cheeks. “You killed her. You ruined your life!” The gun remains tightly in my grip inside my purse.
“She was a fucking cunt who deserved it! She was a cheating fucking whore!”
“But you—you didn’t even get charged, so how did I ruin your life?” I try to keep him talking, worried that if I don’t, he’s going to lunge at me and it will all be over.
He crouches down beside me, coming so close I can now smell his whiskey-soaked breath. He sways slightly, and his eyes are red and blurry. He’s beyond drunk.
“They kicked me off the force, then I lost my house.” He slurs the words. “She meant nothing, you know that? She was just a lowlife hooker and had the audacity to tell me she’d report me if I didn’t pay her for a sloppy-ass blow job!”
I glance around, hoping and praying someone else from the bar will leave and walk by, but it’s no use. The dumpster he’s shoved me behind blocks any view of us.
“But you . . . you wouldn’t let it go. You—” The tip of the knife is inches from my face, and I swallow hard, pressing the back of my head into the wall behind me to try to get away from him. He stares at me for several more seconds, his eyes dropping down to where my blouse is unbuttoned slightly. He sticks the tip of the knife between the folds of the blouse. “Maybe I’ll have a little fun with you first though.”
The second he goes to stand back up, I seize the opportunity and lunge forward, pushing him onto his back. But it’s not enough, because even in his drunken state, he doesn’t lose his grip on the knife, and he’s back up on his feet in a second.
There’s no time for me to run, so I do the only thing I can. I pull the gun from my purse, pointing it at him with a shaky hand.
“Stay back or I’ll shoot!” I wrap both hands around the grip, trying to remain calm. I can feel my palms sweating against the cool steel. Panic flashes across his face only for a second before being replaced with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. Shaking, I reach my finger down, switching off the safety.
“No, you woul—” He only takes one step toward me before I pull the trigger, sending a bullet right through his torso.
He stumbles once, then twice, with a groan, falling backward as he clutches his stomach in disbelief. Blood soaks his shirt in seconds, dark and thick. He looks down in shock, then back up at me as he stumbles to the ground.
“You shot me!” he finally says.
My hands begin to shake violently, my stomach rolls, and I have to keep myself from vomiting. I drop the gun, panicking before falling to my knees and scurrying over to his side to press my hands over the gushing wound.
“I—I—I need to call someone.” Terror crashes through my panic at a rapid rate. The blood continues to pour from Kurt’s stomach, his face growing paler by the second. I replace my hands with his, falling to my ass as I scramble to find my phone. But when I do, my fingers are too sticky with blood to type in the numbers.
“Shit!” My voice is now high-pitched with terror, tears streaming down my face as I fumble with my phone, holding it far enough away to scan my face. Finally, the screen opens and I dial 9-1-1, my thumb hovering over the green CALL button, but I can’t make myself do it.
“Call 9-1-1, you bitch.” He presses his hands harder against his stomach to stop the bleeding, but it’s not doing much to help.
If I call 9-1-1, I’ll probably be arrested. I know how these things work: a young woman drinking at a bar alone gets attacked by a man? They’ll say it was my fault, that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He only has a knife . . . will they see this as self-defense? Especially since he was once one of them—a cop?
Instead, I pull up Damien’s name, about to dial his number, when the sound of crunching gravel makes me freeze.
Someone’s coming!
But when I turn to look to see if this person can see us, it’s a familiar pair of dark eyes staring back at me, walking toward us with purpose.
“Damien?” I whisper his name, unsure if I’m imagining him, but then he speaks.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, reaching down to pick up the gun, his voice deceptively soft despite the situation.
“Call the fucking cops, you prick!” Kurt interrupts, wincing in pain, and turning his head to spit, but when he does, it’s a spray of blood that comes out. “Fuck, I’m fucking dying!” He then screams, “They’re trying to kill me!” in a pathetic last-ditch effort to stop what is inevitably about to happen.
Damien’s smile lacks any warmth as he takes a single step closer to plant his foot atop Kurt’s hands, where he’s pressing against his wound. He crouches down so the man has no choice but to look at him.
“Look at me.” He taps the gun against Kurt’s face. “You know who I am, don’t you?” He thrashes in pain at the weight of Damien’s foot. It’s evident he knows exactly who he is.
“Eve is under my protection.” He presses his foot down harder, and Kurt grunts in pain so loudly, I’m certain someone will hear what’s going on. But Damien doesn’t seem concerned. “So when you’re threatening her, you’re threatening me. And I don’t take kindly to threats.”
The possessive implication of Damien’s words should scare me, but instead, I find myself leaning into the idea of his protection.
“You . . . don’t know . . .” Kurt sputters out his words, “who you’re dealing with.”
“I know exactly who you are.” Damien’s tone is ice cold. “Kurt Ivy. Suspected in the murder of Tia Fellows four years ago. Charges dropped due to supposed procedural errors in evidence collection, but we both know it’s because you were a cop. Currently unemployed, living with your cousin after your last girlfriend kicked you out due to your increasing alcoholism and violent tendencies.”
Damien reaches a single black-leather-clad hand into his suit jacket, pulling out a dark, long, cylindrical item.
“I make it my business to know things, Kurt. Particularly about people who threaten what belongs to me.” Damien steps closer, staring down at Kurt’s pale face. “You’ve made a significant error in judgment tonight. One I’m about to correct.”
Time slows as Damien raises the gun, screwing the silencer on with methodical precision. His movements are fluid—practiced—like a deadly choreography he’s performed countless times.
“No, no!” Kurt kicks his legs, trying to get away, but it’s useless.
“Look at me,” Damien commands, his voice so soft it’s almost tender. He crouches down to Kurt’s eye level, maintaining direct eye contact. “I want to watch the moment you understand it’s over.”
Damien’s pupils dilate slightly as he positions the gun, a flash of pleasure crossing his features that I can’t miss. This isn’t just vengeance or justice . . . it’s satisfaction. His breathing deepens almost imperceptibly with the rhythm of a predator savoring the kill.
The first shot is precise, entering just below Kurt’s sternum. I flinch, but Damien remains perfectly still except for the soft exhale that escapes his lips. It’s a sound so intimate, it makes my stomach clench.
The second shot follows, and I see Damien’s jaw tighten—not with tension, but with something that resembles pleasure.
“This is justice,” Damien whispers just loud enough for me to hear as he fires the third and final shot into Kurt’s heart.
Kurt’s body jolts with each impact, his eyes and mouth frozen wide as his final breath rattles from his lungs. But Damien doesn’t look away, not once, his gaze locked on Kurt’s, watching intently as the light fades from his eyes, as if drinking in the moment life becomes death.
Only when Kurt’s eyes go completely vacant does Damien stand, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he unscrews the silencer with the same careful precision he attached it.
Then, as if I didn’t just watch him murder a man in cold blood, he puts the gun back into his suit, grabs my arm, and leads me toward his waiting Bentley.
“Are you hurt?” Damien’s voice sounds distant, like I’m underwater and he’s calling to me from the surface.
I can’t speak. Can’t move. My body is frozen, my mind replaying those three muffled shots on an endless loop. The way Kurt’s body jerked with each impact. The way his eyes went vacant.
“Eve.” Damien’s hand grips my elbow, steadying me as he guides me toward the car. “We need to leave. Now.”
I let him lead me, my legs moving mechanically. The leather seat is cool against my skin as I slide in, and the door closes with a solid thud that makes me flinch. I stare straight ahead as Damien walks around to the driver’s side, his movements calm and deliberate like he hasn’t just killed a man in an alley.
The drive is silent. I focus on the Chicago lights blurring past my window, unable to look at him. The smell of blood still fills my nostrils, though there’s no trace of it in his immaculate car. I glance down at my legs, noticing for the first time the dark spatters on my pants and shoes. Kurt’s blood. My stomach lurches.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I tuck them between my knees, squeezing tightly, as if I might contain the tremors by force.
“We should call the police,” I finally whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Damien’s eyes remain fixed on the road. “That would be unwise.”
“He attacked me,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “It was self-defense. I shot him first.”
“And who do you think they’ll believe? The disgraced ex-cop with friends still on the force, or the journalist who’s been digging into things she shouldn’t?”
I swallow hard, knowing he’s right but unwilling to admit it. My father’s voice plays in my head: “The system works, Eve. Maybe not perfectly, but it’s all we have. Without it, we’re just animals.”
My father believed that. I used to believe it too.
I slide my hand into my pocket, feeling for my phone. With my fingers trembling, I navigate to the emergency call button and lower the phone between the seat and the door, the screen facing away from Damien.
“You don’t want to do that,” he says, eyes still on the road.
I freeze. “Why not?”
“Because they won’t help you.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “Even if you could convince them it was self-defense, which you couldn’t, there would be questions. About why you had my gun. About why I was there. About what you’ve been investigating.”
“But—”
“Kurt Ivy was a police officer. His friends would make sure those questions led to you in a cell, not to justice.” He glances at me briefly. “Is that what you want?”
I stare at him, letting his words sink in. “How did you know I was there?”
“I told you, you’re under my protection.”
“You’re having me followed.” It’s not a question.
“Yes.”
The admission should anger me. Instead, relief washes over me at the thought that he was there, and that realization terrifies me more than the blood on my shoes and hands.
We pull up to Eden, the Gothic silhouette looming dark against the night sky. Damien leads me inside, through the grand entrance hall and into a study I haven’t seen before. A fire crackles in the ornate fireplace, casting dancing shadows across a large collection of books that adorns polished wood shelves.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a plush sofa. He moves to a small bar, pouring whiskey into two crystal glasses.
I sink into the cushions, the reality of what just happened finally crashing down on me. My breath comes out in short gasps.
“I killed someone,” I whisper, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.
Damien hands me one of the glasses. “You defended yourself against a murderer who was going to kill you. And technically, you only shot him.”
I take the glass with both hands to stop it from spilling, but don’t drink. “And then you killed him.”
“I eliminated a threat to your safety.” He sits opposite me, perfectly composed while I’m falling apart. “A man who murdered an innocent woman and escaped justice.”
“That’s not how justice works.”
“Isn’t it?” His dark eyes hold mine. “How many victims of Kurt Ivy do you think found justice through traditional channels?”
“None,” I admit, the answer burning my throat.
“And how did that make you feel? When you realized the system you believed in failed Tia Fellows?”
The question hits me like a physical blow. I remember my rage, my helplessness, when I realized Kurt would never face consequences through legal means.
“I was . . . angry.”
“Just angry?”
I look down at my hands. “I wanted him to pay.”
“And now he has.” Damien leans forward. “Tell me the truth, Eve. When you saw him fall, when you knew he would never hurt another woman, did you feel satisfaction?”
I want to deny it and claim moral superiority. But the truth is undeniable.
“Yes,” I whisper, shame and relief battling within me. “What does that make me?”
“Human.” His voice softens. “It makes you human.”
I finally take a sip of the whiskey, the burn matching the fire in my chest. Everything I thought I knew about myself, about justice, about right and wrong, is shifting beneath my feet like quicksand.
“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
Damien’s smile is small but genuine. “Only if you let it.”
I look at him across the space between us—this dangerous man who kills without hesitation yet speaks of justice with conviction. The man I should be running from but instead am turning toward.
“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” I admit.
“I do.” His eyes bore into mine. “You’re someone who recognizes that sometimes justice requires stepping outside the lines. Someone who understands that the world isn’t black and white.”
The truth of his words resonates within me, terrifying and liberating all at once. What remained of my innocence died in that alley tonight, alongside Kurt Ivy.
“What happens now?” I ask, my voice steadier than before.
Damien leans back, studying me. “That depends on you.”
I take another sip of whiskey, feeling it warm me from the inside out. I’ve crossed a line tonight. Damien’s protection suddenly feels less like a threat and more like a necessity.
“I need your help,” I finally say, the words changing everything between us.
His smile spreads slowly across his face. “I know.”