Chapter 5
Five
Rafael
Fifteen minutes ago, I was sitting in my office ready to throw every last red envelope in the trash and call it a night.
Wishes for murder. Wishes for revenge. Wishes for accidents that would conveniently rid the world of inconvenient spouses.
And the list goes on. The stack on my desk had grown tall enough to cast a shadow across my laptop screen, and not a single letter had sparked anything other than bone-deep exhaustion.
The Scarlet Thorn hums beneath my feet, a living pulse of music and laughter and the particular kind of sin that people pay handsomely to indulge in.
Three floors below, Chicago’s elite are drinking champagne that costs more than most people’s car payments, dancing in clothes that cost even more, whispering secrets they think no one can hear.
They’re wrong about that last part, but ignorance is bliss and I’m not in the business of shattering illusions tonight.
I toss another envelope into the pile designated for the incinerator and lean back in my leather chair, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
The tension that has taken up permanent residence between my shoulder blades feels like a creature with teeth tonight, gnawing at muscle and bone with the persistent patience of something that knows it will eventually win.
Four months. One hundred and twenty days, give or take, before my father burns everything I’ve built to the ground with the flick of a pen on a contract I should have stopped three years ago when Marco died.
The door to my office opens without a knock, which means it can only be one person.
Drake steps inside and closes the door behind him with the quiet efficiency of a man who has been watching my back since we were both young enough to think we were invincible.
He’s got a tablet tucked under one arm and a glass of scotch in each hand, and the look on his face tells me he’s been watching me spiral for the last hour and has finally decided to intervene.
“You look like shit,” he observes, handing me one of the glasses before dropping into the chair across from my desk with the comfortable sprawl of a man who knows he’s earned the right to speak freely in this room.
“Charming as ever.” I accept the scotch and swallow half of it in one go, welcoming the familiar burn that chases the chill from my chest. “Tell me you have something that doesn’t involve burying a body or destroying evidence. Too tired to care about much at this point.”
Which is true. I’ve been stuck in these four walls for too long. I either need to go a few rounds in the basement gym or fall into bed and sleep for a week. It doesn’t matter at this point as long as I can get out from behind this desk.
Drake props his ankle on his knee and studies me with those steel-gray eyes that miss nothing.
He’s my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor, and the only man alive who has ever seen me cry, a fact neither of us will ever acknowledge out loud.
“Security flagged someone interesting at the front entrance about ten minutes ago. Thought you might want to take a look.”
He turns the tablet toward me and I find myself staring at a frozen frame of surveillance footage.
A woman in white silk is stepping through the Scarlet Thorn’s entrance, her violet hair catching the light from the chandeliers overhead in a way that makes it shimmer like something otherworldly.
Her mascara is smudged. Her lipstick isn’t faring much better.
And even through the grainy digital rendering of the security feed, I can see the devastation written across every line of her delicate features.
“Persia Fiore. The Governor’s daughter.”
Something hot and dark unfurls in my chest as I enlarge the image and study her face more closely.
I know who she is, of course. I make it my business to know everything about the men who stand between me and absolute control of this city, and Barret Fiore has been a thorn in my side since the day he took office on a platform of cleaning up corruption while simultaneously drowning in it himself.
Two-faced assholes come a dime a dozen in my line of work.
I’ve never met his daughter in person. But I’ve seen her in photographs, standing beside her father at campaign rallies and charity galas with that perfect politician’s daughter smile fixed firmly in place.
In those pictures, she always looked polished.
Untouchable. And fucking empty to the core.
Like her soul simply checked out one day and left her without a single emotion.
The woman on my screen looks nothing like those photographs.
This woman looks like she’s been crying for hours. Like she’s running from something. Like she’s one wrong word away from shattering into a thousand pieces on my pristine marble floors.
“Why is she here?” I ask, though I’m already pushing to my feet and reaching for the suit jacket draped over the back of my chair.
Drake shrugs one broad shoulder. “Not sure. She’s not a Scarlet or Lux member. She signed in as a guest to meet friends in the lounge as far as I can tell. But she’s alone now and headed somewhere she definitely doesn’t have clearance for.”
He turns the tablet around to show her walking down a corridor.
The wish room. She’s going to the wish room.
Interest sharpens into something more urgent as I shrug into my jacket and straighten my cuffs with the automatic precision of a man who learned long ago that armor comes in many forms.“Which friends?”
“Two socialites. Kiara and Calla something. Twins. They left her at a table about five minutes ago to hit the dance floor with their dates.”
“Her friends, huh?”
Another shrug from Drake. “I guess that is what passes for friends these days.”
He’s talking about friends not leaving friends behind.
It’s the code we grew up with and still live by today.
We have each other’s backs no matter what and we sure as hell don’t leave a man alone.
And in Persia's case, her friends walked away and left her alone in a room full of horny men who could quickly pull her into a room and do whatever they wanted to with her.
So Persia Fiore, the carefully guarded princess of the Governor’s household, has slipped her leash and wandered into my den without protection. Without backup. Without any idea of the wolves that circle these halls in expensive suits and practiced smiles.
A smart man would stay in his office and let her stumble through whatever crisis has driven her here.
A smart man would wait for the morning’s wish collection and read her desperate letter with cold, calculating eyes.
A smart man would not put himself in the path of a woman who could complicate everything.
I have never claimed to be smart. Just ruthless.
“Where are you going?” Drake asks as I move toward the door, though the curve of his mouth suggests he already knows the answer.
I pause with my hand on the brass handle and let a smile that has made powerful men reconsider their life choices spread across my face. “Probably to stir up some trouble.”
The private corridors of the Scarlet Thorn are a labyrinth of hidden passages and secret doors that connect every level of the building, from the legitimate business floors of Redthorne Holdings to the decadent playrooms reserved for our most exclusive members.
I know these passages the way I know the back of my own hand, and I navigate them now with the silent efficiency of a predator moving through his own territory.
The wish room sits at the heart of the club’s restricted section, accessible only to members who have paid for the privilege and to the desperate souls willing to risk everything for a chance at salvation.
I slip through a concealed panel and emerge in the narrow observation gallery that runs along one wall, hidden behind glass that appears solid from the other side.
It’s a useful feature for a man who likes to watch.
And tonight, I very much want to watch.
She enters the room like she’s stepping into a church, hesitant and reverent and aching with need.
The white dress that hugs her curves is exquisite in its simplicity, designed to showcase her delicate beauty while maintaining the illusion of innocence.
But there’s nothing innocent about the way her aqua eyes sweep the room, cataloging every shadow, every flicker of candlelight, every possible exit.
She’s faced danger before. Who has made her feel so unsafe in her young life that she looks for danger instead of leading a carefree life?
She’s been trained to survive in dangerous spaces.
I can see it in the way she moves, the way she positions herself near the door, the way her fingers twitch toward her hip as though reaching for a weapon that obviously isn’t there.
Her father might keep her on a short leash, but somewhere along the way, someone taught this girl that life is out to get her.
She approaches the wish box at the center of the room and pauses, her brow furrowing as she searches the space for something.
Pen and paper, most likely, neither of which is provided for good reason.
Our wishes must be written in the wisher’s own hand, on their own materials, with ink that carries something of themselves.
It weeds out the impulsive and the half-hearted, leaves only those desperate enough to find a way.
I watch her face transform as understanding dawns, followed swiftly by frustration and then something darker. Determination. Defiance. She reaches down and grips the hem of her dress with both hands, and the sound of silk tearing echoes through the candlelit chamber like a declaration of war.
I shake my head. If I’m ever lucky enough to have a daughter, she’ll know how to drop the enemy at fifty paces by the time she’s twelve. Take that promise to the bank. By eighteen she’ll be a lethal weapon.