Whispers of Betrayal

Chapter 1

The man in the chair would not stop crying, talk about being all macho on the outside but underneath, a pathetic desperate little man.

It started quietly with wet breathing, a trembling lower lip.

A desperate attempt at swallowing fear back down before it could make a scene.

But by the twenty-minute mark, Warren had lost whatever pride he had come in with.

His shoulders shook against the leather chair, his face wet and red, his expensive shirt-stained dark beneath the arms.

Beatrice Rossi sat across from him in a relaxed position with her legs crossed at the ankles.

She had nowhere else in the world to be, at least that is what it would look like to Warren.

The room was warm, that was the point, no chains, no blood, no exposed drains in the floor.

Just amber lighting, dark wood paneling, a soft rug, and a low table between them with a sweating glass of water.

It looked more like a private office designed by an expensive therapist than a place where men came apart.

People expected violence, they expected fists, knives, and threats.

They came in bracing for pain and found a woman in an oversized sweater, leggings that clung for dear life against her thick thighs and belly.

Her dark curls falling loose around her shoulders, and a warm smile.

They tend to relax thinking to themselves that there is no way this woman will inflict pain upon them.

Warren jerked against the straps again, making the chair creak. Mid-forties, thick neck, expensive watch, and weak eyes. The kind of man who had spent years using other people’s vulnerability for his own power. Bea took a slow sip of her tea.

“I don’t understand why you’re still doing this to yourself, Warren.”

His red-rimmed eyes lifted to hers. “I told you everything.”

“No,” Bea said softly. “You told me what you thought I wanted to hear, so I would send you on your merry way unharmed.”

A shudder rolled through him, as she set her mug down with care, then folded her hands in her lap.

“You know what’s always fascinating about men like you?

” He stared at her. “You think cruelty makes you untouchable.” Her voice stayed light, like they were having a friendly conversation.

“You think because you hurt people, because you make money off suffering, because you can watch someone beg and not blink, that it means there’s something powerful about you. ” Her mouth curved. “But there isn’t.”

His jaw tightened, “You’re not powerful, Warren.” Bea tilted her head. “You are lazy. Real men build successful empires by not letting their minds get greedy. Men like you are bottom feeders who will do anything for a scrap of power, it’s disgusting, and pathetic.”

“That’s not- “

She lifted one finger to shut him up, and he did.

Silence spread through the room, thick and deliberate.

Bea let them both sit for a few more minutes.

That was the thing most people never understood about her work.

It was not about intimidation. It was not about breaking bones for the truth to start clawing its way out of them.

Warren swallowed hard, outside the door they could hear the shuffling of feet, slow and heavy, they both knew the men who waited beyond that door would not think twice before putting a bullet between his eyes.

All she had to do was say the words. Her mouth almost twitched knowing she held his fate in her hands, he was a dead man, but she wouldn’t let him know that yet.

She picked up the slim black folder from the table beside her and opened it, though she had every page memorized already.

“I spoke to Lizzy.”

Warren’s face emptied, there it was, not confusion, but recognition. Bea did not miss the way his fingers curled against the chair arm or the way his breathing picked up. She looked up slowly.

“Well,” she murmured. “What she told me was quite interesting.”

“I don’t know a Lizzy.”

“That would have sounded more convincing if your left eye hadn’t twitched.”

His breathing hitched. “What?”

“You should really learn your own face before you lie to me with it.” He went still; Bea closed the folder and set it aside.

“Lizzy gave me names, dates, locations.” She let her gaze drift over him, cool and unhurried. “Enough to bury you, not enough to save the girls though.”

His lips trembled. “Please.”

Bea ignored it. “Do you know what your problem is, Warren?” she asked.

“You still think this is a negotiation.” She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.

His whole body locked. “It stopped being a negotiation the second I walked in. Do you know what that means?” Seconds ticked by before she continued.

“That means I am the final decision maker, your life, is literally in my hands.”

A broken sound slipped out of him. Bea lowered her voice until it was almost a gentle whisper.

“I am going to ask you where they moved the girls to, and you are going to tell me. Then I am going to leave this room, and the men outside are going to come in here and do everything to you that you and your men did to those girls.”

His face drained of what little color it had left. “No, no, please- “

“If you lie,” she continued, “I will know. And if you make me ask again, I will tell them to drag it out, keep you alive for days, months even, and repeat everything. Over and over again.”

Tears spilled faster now, good, fear made selfish men honest.

Bea sat back and crossed her ankles again. “Where are the girls?”

His mouth opened, closed, then because he was exactly what she thought he was, he broke. “Warehouse twelve,” he whispered. “South side shipping district. Underground storage, unit 2564.” He started sobbing harder. “There’s six of them left.”

Six, Bea held his gaze for one extra beat, just long enough to make sure he wasn’t trying to buy himself a prettier death with false hope. He wasn’t, he was just crying, pathetic.

She rose in one smooth motion and tugged the hem of her sweater down. Her boots barely made a sound as she crossed to the door. Hand on the knob, she paused. Now to hurt his ego one last time.

“Warren.”

He looked up, wrecked and still shaking. Bea smiled pleasantly. “I never spoke to a Lizzy, I just picked a random name and ran with it, oh well.” Then she stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Marco Valenti, son of Antonio Valenti, head of the Valenti empire.

He was leaning against the wall across from her, dark shirt open at the throat, tattoos peaking out from behind it.

Sleeves rolled, one ankle crossed over the other.

He straightened the second he saw her, his expression shifting from bored menace to amused interest in a blink.

The corner of his mouth tipped up.

“There’s my favorite girl.” His grin widened

“Am I not the only girl in your life Marco?” she placed her hand over her heart acting offended, getting a chuckle out of both.

A few feet down the hall, two of Antonio Valenti’s men snapped to attention. “Well?” One of them asked. Bea glanced at Marco first, because for all his swagger, he was the one Antonio trusted to decide what happened next.

“Warehouse twelve,” she said. “South side shipping district, its underground storage number 2564. There are six girls, hopefully, still alive.”

Marco’s expression changed instantly. The flirtation vanished, leaving something colder and dangerous underneath.

He turned to the two men. “Take a team, go now, and get the girls out safely.” The bigger of the two men nodded once, Marco added, voice hard as iron, “Once they are safe let me know, so I can dispose of that parasite.” Neither man hesitated, they were gone in seconds.

Only when the hallway quieted again did Marco look back at Bea. The edge in his face eased, smirk returning like it had never left.

“Well,” His voice going husky as he pushed off the wall, “That will take some time.”

Bea folded her arms loosely over herself. “Will it?”

He stepped closer, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before lifting again.

“It definitely could,” he said, “If you wanted to get out of here with me for a bit.”

Bea huffed a laugh, there he was, Marco Valenti might be an arrogant unhinged asshole, but he’d been sweet on her for years in that reckless, shameless way only he could manage.

They’d fallen into each other’s bed more than once, always with clear rules and absolutely no regrets.

It was easy with him, fun, and fucking hot, the way he loved her curvier body.

She reached up and patted his cheek, his smirk deepened. Then she leaned in and kissed him, quick and soft at first, just enough to make him make that low pleased sound in the back of his throat before she pulled away.

“Not tonight, lover boy,” She whispered, “My three boyfriends are already waiting on me.”

Marco barked out a laugh. “All right, sugar. Maybe next time.” Bea started to step around him, but he caught her wrist lightly. “Oh,” he said, eyes gleaming. “And you better watch your back.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why is that?”

“I’ll take Cas away from you.”

Bea’s eyes widened before narrowing once more. Marco looked unbearably pleased with himself. She bit her lip, pretending to think it over, then let her gaze slide over him in a way that made his shoulders shift under his shirt.

“You know,” she said lightly, “I bet you two would look so pretty together.” His eyes darkened.

“Not as pretty as you’d look between us, beautiful.”

Bea laughed, ignoring the heat rising up her neck, she had always knew he was bisexual, sadly she never got the chance to see him with another man.

Marco took the opportunity to pull her in for another kiss.

This one slower, hotter, all smug confidence, expensive whiskey and bad decisions.

When she finally stepped back, she was still smiling. “Bye, lover boy.”

His mouth twitched as he let out a deep breath. “Drive safe, trouble, and tell Barb I said Hi. We still getting lunch next week right?” Bea lifted two fingers in a lazy salute, “of course.” and turned toward the elevator.

By the time she reached the private garage level, her car was waiting for her. The driver opened the back door without a word, and Bea slid inside, letting herself sink into the leather with a quiet sigh. For the first time all night, the adrenaline started to ebb.

Her phone buzzed before the car even pulled out.

BARB: Tell me you’re done ruining men’s lives for the evening. I made lasagna.

A smile tugged at Bea’s mouth before she could stop it.

BEA: Depends. Is there garlic bread?

BARB: Obviously. I’m not an animal.

Bea laughed softly and looked out the window as the city began to move past in ribbons of neon and steel. Chicago was a living thing, hungry and corrupt, beautiful enough to trick you into loving it anyway. In order to survive anymore you need to not only be ruthless, but smart.

Tonight, six girls would survive because Bea was both.

And somewhere above the city, in the warm penthouse of her dreams, Barb was waiting with lasagna, garlic bread, and whatever commentary she had prepared about Bea’s terrible taste in fictional men.

For a few precious minutes, that was all Bea let herself be happy about.