Chapter 2
Two
Onyx
The Redthorne building rises against the Chicago skyline like a blade forged from glass and steel. I stare up at it from the sidewalk, laptop bag clutched against my chest, and my brain starts firing on all cylinders.
I know this building. Actually, I know who owns it.
Six months of research didn't just cover the Malones. When you're investigating one criminal empire, you end up mapping all the others that orbit around it. The Red Letter Syndicate is one of the biggest.
I rummage through my mental database of names and the first one that pops up in Rafael Milano.
He stands at the helm. His five "brothers" run different arms of the operation.
Banking. Unions. Intelligence. Enforcement.
Among others. If there's a dirty dollar to be made, they've got their hands in it. Fact is fact.
And now I'm about to walk into their territory and ask for help.
Either I'm desperate or I'm stupid. Probably both.
Color me a hypocrite. Then again, the enemy of my enemy and all that, right? I’ll need to tattoo that on my brain to make sure I remember it because I’m feeling many levels of slimy just thinking about it.
The driver who picked me up on the highway drops me two blocks away. Nice guy. Didn't ask questions. Didn't try to murder me. Low bar, but I'll take the win.
I smooth down my hair, wipe the mascara smudges from under my eyes, and try to look like someone who belongs at an upscale club instead of someone who just climbed out a window and ran through the woods.
The scratches on my arms sting when I pull my sleeves down to cover them.
Nothing I can do about the dirt on my jeans or the leaves still tangled in my hair.
I pick out what I can and hope the lighting inside is forgiving.
The lobby of Redthorne Holdings is all sleek modern design, the kind of architecture that whispers money and power without having to raise its voice.
I cross the marble floor toward the elevator bank, keeping my head high and my shoulders straight like I have every right to be here.
Fake it till you make it has gotten me through worse situations than this.
Scarlet Thorn sits seven floors above the business offices, according to my research. I press the button and wait, forcing my shoulders down and my breathing steady.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and I step inside just as a couple glides in behind me. A cloud of perfume follows them in, so thick and floral it coats the back of my throat.
The woman is draped in ruby red silk that flows over her curves like water, diamonds glittering at her throat.
The man beside her wears a suit that looks like he stood still while they tailored it to fit him down to the last detail.
His hand rests possessively on the small of her back.
Neither of them acknowledges my existence, which suits me fine.
The woman presses the button for Scarlet Thorn with a manicured finger, and I feel her gaze slide over my dirt-stained jeans and wrinkled shirt. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches just slightly, a microexpression of disdain so subtle it could almost be imagined.
Almost.
I keep my eyes fixed on the mirrored doors and pretend I don't notice.
I've spent years being looked through by people who think money makes them better than everyone else. This is nothing new. Everyone likes to assume and judge you by your appearance. No one would ever think of me as a billionaire’s daughter.
And good. I’ve worked hard to distance myself from my family’s blood money.
The elevator rises so smoothly I barely feel the motion, soft classical music playing from hidden speakers, and I count the floors until we finally glide to a stop.
The doors open, and I have to stop myself from gasping out loud.
White marble floors stretch before me like a frozen sea, so polished I can see my own reflection staring back with wide, exhausted eyes.
Crystal chandeliers drip from ceilings so high they make me dizzy, casting warm golden light across everything they touch.
The air smells expensive, a blend of French perfume and top-shelf whiskey and the kind of sin that only people with unlimited bank accounts can afford to indulge in.
The couple exits first, the woman's silk gown whispering against the marble as she glides forward like she owns the place. Maybe she does. I slip out behind them, keeping my distance, trying to make myself small and forgettable. Trust me when I say it’s never good to stand out in my world.
A host in an immaculate suit stands behind a podium, a thick leather-bound book open before him and a fountain pen poised in his hand. His voice is warm but practiced as he greets the couple.
"Lovely to see you both again. Your usual table is prepared and you have fresh drinks waiting."
They sign their names in the book with the casual elegance of people who have done this a thousand times, their signatures probably works of art, and then they're gone, disappearing into the club's depths with the rustle of silk and the click of expensive heels on marble.
I'm left standing alone under the host's expectant gaze.
His eyes flick over my appearance, taking in the scratches on my arms, the dirt on my jeans, the dark circles I know are visible beneath my pathetic attempt at concealer. Something shifts in his expression, but to his credit, his smile doesn't falter.
I already like him.
“Hi there.” I’ve never been known to be shy. “I bet I’m not your usual client.”
His smile turns from the practiced greeting to something that feels genuine. "Welcome to Scarlet Thorn." His voice remains warm, though I catch the slight question in it now. "May I have your signature? A hostess will escort you to the floor of your choosing."
“Oh, I thought for sure I would be taken to a back room, hosed down and forced into a dress by dudes in black or something.”
"That's level two membership, miss." His brow arches, playing along, and there's a flicker of genuine amusement beneath the professional polish.
I actually laugh at that, which feels wrong given the night I'm having, but here we are. "Good to know. I'll add it to the bucket list if I survive the week."
He passes me a black cloth and gestures toward his cheek. “You’ve got a little something there.”
I huff out a breath. “Right. You never know how a romp through the woods will leave you.” I toss him a wink that I swear has a hint of color hitting his cheeks.
“Ready for your signature?”
“I like this no questions asked thing you’ve got going on.”
I sign my name in the guest section with fingers that tremble only slightly, grateful that he doesn't question my clothes or my disheveled appearance or the fact that I clearly don't belong anywhere near this place looking the way I do.
The leather-bound book accepts my scrawl without judgment, and a woman in a sleek black evening gown materializes beside me like she's been conjured from the shadows themselves.
"If you'll follow me, miss."
The Scarlet lounge unfolds before us in shades of deep crimson and glimmering gold, every surface designed to seduce the senses.
Low music pulses from hidden speakers, something sultry and inviting that seems to wrap around my bones and settle somewhere deep in my chest. Beautiful people lounge on velvet furniture in shades of red and burgundy, sipping cocktails that catch the light like liquid jewels, their laughter tinkling through the perfumed air.
Bodies move together on a dance floor that gleams like polished blood, hips rolling, hands wandering, mouths finding necks and ears with the kind of casual intimacy that suggests everyone here knows exactly what they came for.
A woman in a dress cut down the middle to her navel runs her fingers along the chest of a man in a charcoal suit as they pass me, her laugh low and throaty, his hand sliding possessively around her waist. Another couple presses against a pillar near the bar, so tangled together I can't tell where one ends and the other begins.
This place drips with sensuality the way my uncle's study drips with cigar smoke and the threat of violence. It's soaked into the velvet booths and the dim lighting and the way the bartenders move, slow and deliberate, like even mixing a drink is an act of seduction.
My journalist brain kicks into overdrive despite the heat creeping up my neck.
I catalog everything, filing away details like weapons I might need later.
The Malone exposé is my priority, but a side piece on Chicago's most exclusive underground club?
The kind of place where sin wears silk and secrets trade hands over champagne?
That's the seasoning that gets an editor's attention.
That's the kind of story that could land me a desk at the Tribune instead of another rejection letter. A job I’d kill for.
Figuratively, of course.
Security guards the exits, mountains of muscle stuffed into black suits, earpieces curling up the side of jaws that look like they've taken a few punches. And by the looks of their knuckles they’ve given back worse.
The VIP section hides in the shadows above, and through the dim lighting I catch glimpses of figures draped across furniture like Roman emperors deciding which offering pleases them most. Then there are the men on the floor, the ones who cut through the crowd without ever being touched, bodies parting for them like water around sharks.
They don't walk like they own the room. They walk like they own everyone in it.
This isn't just a club. This is a headquarters wearing designer clothes and dripping in diamonds, and I just walked through the front door covered in dirt and desperation.
The hostess deposits me near a cluster of empty tables with a kind smile. "A waitress will be with you shortly."
Then she disappears back toward the entrance, leaving me exactly where I want to be. Alone.