Chapter 4 #3
Whatever. I flick past the headline and fill the screen with her picture. She’s in jeans, boots and a leather jacket with a familiar bag slung over her shoulder. She’s at some corner restaurant and looks nothing like a stuck up daughter living off daddy’s dirty money.
From this angle I can’t see her eyes, but her heart shaped face and jet black hair will sit in my memory forever.
“Here.” Rowan pulls my attention back to the screen on the wall.
The wish room fills the screen, candlelight flickering against walls painted black and scarlet.
Dark hair catches the candlelight and turns it to blue-black silk. He jumps to another angle from a different camera. One that shows her face. Blue eyes are visible even through the grainy footage, sharp and defiant all at once.
“That’s her for sure.”
That’s Massimo stating the obvious.
“Da,” I agree and hold up the wish. “That is her and this is her wish.”
The brothers continue talking but I tune them out and pay attention to the screen.
She's scared. I can see it in the way she holds herself, shoulders curved inward like she's bracing for a blow. In the way her hand trembles as she picks up the pen and in the way she glances over her shoulder at the closed door, checking for threats that haven't materialized yet.
But she writes anyway. Her hand moves across the paper with determination, pressing hard, each stroke deliberate. I trace my fingers over the wish in my hand, feeling the indentations of each letter.
Seething anger boils through my veins for a woman I’ve never met. Her uncle will pay for the fear he’s caused her with every drop of his blood.
Heat spreads through my chest, unfamiliar and unsettling, pooling behind my ribs and too damn close to my heart for comfort.
My pulse picks up, and my fingers tighten on the paper hard enough to crease it.
I force myself to loosen my grip. I don't know this woman.
But my body is responding like I do. Like she's already mine to protect.
She folds the paper, slides it into the red envelope with shaky fingers and then drops it through the slot in the wish box.
Then she stands there. Palm pressed flat against the dark wood and gold filigree. Eyes closed. Lips moving in what might be a prayer.
I find myself leaning forward, trying to read those silent words on her lips. Trying to understand what she asked for in that moment when she thought no one was watching.
She stays like that for a long moment bargaining with monsters she's never met.
Then she opens her eyes, squares her shoulders, and walks out. Chin high. Spine straight. Ready to face whatever comes next.
I mentally run through the events after she placed the wish.
Drake says something about needing to tighten up security around the wish room and do better screening of who we allow through our doors.
“We need that yes, but we need to hire better security. No one should have been in the back alley at all. We need people back there at all times,” I cut in and Drake points a finger at me.
“The men of Genesis have a few runners they’ve been trying to offload.
” Drake turns to Rafael and continues. “If you’re on board, I’ll reach out and get them on our team.
We need more than just hired help. We need the level of security that makes these fuckers like Enzo and now Malone think twice before stepping into our territory. ”
Rafael’s gaze finds mine and then turns to each of the brothers around the table. “I think we are all on the same page. But if one of Harlon’s runners gets hungry for blood, he’s out. We have no need for wildcards, you feel me?”
“Read you loud and clear, brother.” Drake steps out, phone already pressed to his ear.
The men of Genesis run a tight ship. Among many things, they provide a safe place to do dirty deals that come with contracts for people like us.
We do the same for our clients here at Redthorne Holdings, but there is one service we do not provide that the Men of Genesis do and that is assassins for hire.
You want someone offed and can pay the price, they have a “runner” for that.
It’s messed up, but welcome to my world.
Pulling my thoughts back to Onyx, I hold up the wish. "We have to take this on. She dropped this wish last night. Before the attack."
Rafael takes the paper from my hand. Reads it. His expression doesn't change, but I've known him long enough to see the anger banked behind his eyes, the cold fury that he keeps leashed.
"She’s offering us intelligence on the Malones." His voice is soft, dangerous. "Secrets. In exchange for protection."
He’s being a gentleman. We both know she’s offering her virginity as the sugar on top. But I’m not a fucking fool. She’s getting rid of anything that can be used against her, too. Taking V-cards isn’t my style, but I’m looking to change that for one woman in particular.
Rafael sets the wish on the table, smooths the creases with careful fingers. "The auction is Saturday. Three days. We have three days to get her out."
I nod. "I want to take this one." The words leave my mouth before I've fully formed the thought. "Society 69 knows me. They'll let me in. I'll buy her, bring her back, and then we burn Seamus Malone's entire operation to the ground."
Silence.
Luca lets out a low whistle. "The Beast wants to play hero. That's new."
"Not hero." I meet his eyes, letting him see exactly what I am in this moment. The monster. The weapon. The man who knows what it means to be sold and will burn the world before he lets it happen to someone else. "Protection to a woman who has no one else. She came to us."
Rafael studies me for a long moment. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods.
"Do it. Buy her. Bring her back. Get the intelligence she's offering." A pause. "And Kon? Whatever you do, don't let Seamus know we're coming. Not until you’re ready to put the check in his hand and walk out with his niece."
My smile turns predatory. "His expression will be priceless."
“Counting on it.”
The meeting breaks up. The others filter out, already moving to their assigned tasks. Luca to gather more intel. Rowan to coordinate security. Massimo to prepare whatever legal fictions we'll need. Drake to make calls. Cristian to work his shadow networks.
I stay behind.
The conference room is quiet now, the air still and heavy with the ghosts of conversations and decisions that will ripple outward for months. Just me and the frozen image of her face on the screen, those blue eyes staring out at nothing, caught forever in a moment of desperate courage.
I grab an abandoned tablet in the middle of the table.
Luca’s, no doubt. I type in the security code and pull up Onyx Rose Malone’s file on my tablet.
Luca works wickedly fast as does his contacts.
He’s already compiled everything into one file.
Her journalism degree. Her blocked career.
Her dead mother. Her six months in Chicago.
And a photo.
Black hair that catches the light. Blue eyes sharp enough to cut glass. A jaw set with defiance even in a candid shot. She's not smiling. She's staring directly at the camera with an expression that says try me, I dare you.
I move to the sidebar where crystal decanters catch the morning light and pour myself a vodka. The glass is heavy in my hand, cold against my palm. I don't usually drink this early, but nothing about today is usual.
The first sip burns a trail down my throat, settles into my stomach like liquid fire. The second is smoother. By the third, my hands have stopped shaking and my heart has resumed something approaching a normal rhythm.
The silence of the empty room presses in around me, broken only by the soft hum of the ventilation and the distant sounds of the city thirty-two floors below.
I stand at the window, looking out at Chicago sprawled beneath me, all glass and steel and secrets, and somewhere out there Onyx is alone and has no fucking idea what comes next.
I do. I know what happens when a depraved mother fucker buys another human being and I never wish that evil on another soul.
I look at her photo one more time. Study the stubborn set of her chin. The intelligence in those blue eyes. The woman who was brave enough to ask complete strangers for help.
"Hold on, огонёк," I murmur into the empty room. Little flame. The word feels right on my tongue, even though I don't know why. "I'm coming."