Chapter 1
The first rule of surviving a man like Callum Russo was simple: never show weakness. The second was never, ever keep him waiting.
Sadie Miller broke both rules on a freezing Tuesday night.
She walked into his private booth at the Continental apologizing for the delay, her voice trembling slightly. Callum was half a second from dismissing her entirely when she stepped into the lamplight. He saw the blood on her ruined shoe. He saw the limp.
Time was the only currency Callum Russo truly respected. Money was infinite. Power was fluid. Time was a declining balance.
He sat in the rear booth of the Continental, a high-end steakhouse that existed largely to wash his family’s money, and stared at the gold hands of his Patek Philippe.
10 minutes past 9:00.
The ice in his scotch had already melted, diluting the amber liquor into something he no longer wanted to drink.
Sadie was 10 minutes late.
She was not a lieutenant, a union boss, a corrupt alderman, or a rival capo. She was an art appraiser, a civilian who spent her days covered in dust in the basement of a museum and her nights authenticating stolen 18th-century oils that Callum funneled through private auctions.
Sadie was quiet, aggressively competent, and usually 15 minutes early to everything.
Callum tapped his heavy silver lighter against the mahogany table in a sharp, rhythmic beat. The waiter hovering near a pillar flinched every time the metal struck wood.
Callum did not care.
He was calculating the exact words he would use to terminate Sadie’s contract. Competence did not excuse disrespect.
Then the heavy oak doors opened.
A blast of freezing Chicago rain entered with the muffled wail of a distant siren.
Sadie walked in.
Callum’s jaw tightened.
She handed a dripping umbrella to the hostess. Her normally neat trench coat was soaked dark across the shoulders, and her hair clung to her cheeks. She crossed the restaurant slowly and awkwardly.
“Mr. Russo.”
Her voice was steady but brittle.
“I apologize. The Red Line was stalled. I had to walk the last 6 blocks in the storm.”
Callum did not offer her a seat.
He looked at her from beneath heavy dark brows.
She was shivering. Rainwater ran from her chin onto the lapel of her coat.
Callum searched her expression for deception. The cynical part of him, the part that had kept him alive, expected an excuse involving a sick pet or a lost phone.
Instead, Sadie stood there with a leather portfolio held tightly against her chest.
“Sit.”
It was a command.
She moved toward the booth.
That was when he saw it.
Sadie shifted her weight onto her right leg and inhaled sharply.
It was involuntary.
Her face turned completely pale as she nearly collapsed into the leather seat, biting her lower lip until it lost its color.
Callum’s eyes moved beneath the table.
Her left leg extended awkwardly.
The sheer black tights were torn from the knee downward. Her sensible black pump had been damaged badly. The leather was ripped and streaked with mud.
And with something darker.
Blood.
Callum’s irritation vanished.
It did not become concern.
It hardened into cold focus.
Sadie opened her portfolio as though nothing were wrong.
“I brought the provenance documents for the Caravaggio sketch.”
Her voice was too loud and too fast.
“It’s authentic. Carbon dating on the paper matches the late 16th century. You’ll have no trouble with the auction house.”
Callum ignored the papers.
He leaned forward.
“Why are you limping?”
Sadie stopped arranging the documents.
She kept her eyes down.
“I slipped. The rain on the platform.”
“Look at me.”
She hesitated before raising her eyes.
They were normally sharp and intelligent, a stormy gray. Tonight they were dull with exhaustion and something close to panic.
“You slipped.”
Callum repeated it without emotion.
“Yes.”
He reached across the table.
He did not grab her.
He simply placed his large, calloused hand over her shaking fingers and pinned them to the leather folder.
Her skin was freezing.
“Sadie.”
His voice softened, which made it more dangerous.
“A fall on wet concrete bruises a knee.”
His thumb moved over her wrist.
“It scuffs a shoe.”
Then:
“It doesn’t tear the heel off.”
His eyes dropped toward the dark bruising already forming around her wrist.
“And it doesn’t leave defensive bruises shaped like fingers.”
Sadie tried to pull her hand away.
Callum held it in place.
A purplish-black ring was forming around the skin, unmistakably shaped by a heavy grip.
“Who did this?”
Sadie swallowed.
“It was just a mugging.”
Then quickly:
“Please, Mr. Russo. Can we talk about the painting?”
“No.”
Callum released her hand and stood.
He dropped a $100 bill beside the untouched scotch.
“We’re leaving.”
“I haven’t given you the report.”
“The report doesn’t matter.”
He stepped away from the booth.
Sadie looked small, injured, and frightened.
For the first time in approximately 10 years, Callum felt a surge of rage untouched by strategy or calculation.
“Get up.”
His eyes remained on her.
“If you can’t walk, I’ll carry you out.”
A pause.
“And you don’t want the attention that will bring.”
Sadie pressed her lips together.
She understood who he was.
What he was capable of.
She gripped the edge of the table and forced herself upright.
Immediately, she swayed.
Callum moved without hesitation.
He wrapped 1 arm around her waist and pulled her firmly against his side.
Sadie stiffened.
A small gasp escaped as his arm pressed against whatever else hurt beneath the wet coat.
Callum smelled rain, inexpensive vanilla soap, and fear.
“Walk.”
His voice vibrated against her shoulder.
“I’ve got you.”
The Maybach ride was silent.
Chicago blurred into streaks of neon and rain behind tinted glass. Inside, the cabin smelled of leather and Sadie’s wet coat.
Callum sat opposite her with his elbows on his knees.
He watched.
Sadie pressed herself into the far corner and stared out the window, both arms wrapped around her body.
She was making herself smaller.
Trying not to exist.
Callum recognized the behavior.
He had seen men do the same thing with guns pointed at their faces.
He had never seen it in a woman who cataloged Renaissance paintings for a living.
“Gabe.”
Callum did not take his eyes off Sadie.
“Turn up the heat.”
“Yes, boss.”
Warm air began filling the cabin.
Sadie did not relax.
“You don’t have to do this.”
She spoke toward the window.
“I can go home.”
Then:
“My apartment is in Logan Square. It’s on the way.”
“You’re not going to an empty apartment.”
Callum looked at her soaked clothing.
“Take off your coat.”
Sadie turned.
“Excuse me?”
“The coat.”
His tone remained matter-of-fact.
“It’s soaked.”
“You’re freezing.”
Then:
“Take it off, or I’ll cut it off you.”
He did not phrase it as a threat.
It sounded like a simple fact.
Sadie hesitated before fumbling with the buttons.
Her fingers were too stiff.
Callum exhaled slowly, leaned forward, and moved her hands aside.
He unbuttoned the coat himself.
His movements were efficient and clinical.
He pulled the wet fabric from her shoulders and dropped it onto the floor.
Beneath it, Sadie wore a white button-down shirt and a dark gray wool skirt. The blouse was damp enough to cling against her collarbones.
“Now the shoe.”
Sadie’s jaw tightened.
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re fine, you won’t mind me looking.”
Callum leaned back.
“Take it off.”
Her hand shook as she unbuckled the damaged pump.
She removed it and tried to hide her foot behind the other ankle.
Callum reached out and caught her calf.
Sadie flinched so violently that he stopped.
Her eyes closed.
Her breathing became rapid.
Callum understood then what she had expected.
A criminal.
A killer.
A man whose reputation had taught her to assume the worst the moment his hands touched her.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
His voice roughened.
“I’m going to look.”
He guided her leg carefully until her foot rested on the seat between them.
The shredded nylon revealed an ankle swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
Black.
Blue.
Red.
A jagged cut ran along her shin, still bleeding slowly.
Callum’s thumb hovered over the swelling without touching.
“This isn’t a sprain.”
His voice went quiet.
“Someone kicked you with a heavy boot.”
Sadie looked down at her hands.
“And this…”
He examined the cut.
“…wasn’t a fall.”
He raised his eyes toward her.
“A blade.”
A pause.
“Shallow.”
“Deliberate.”
Then:
“A warning.”
Sadie exhaled shakily.
“They wanted my bag.”
May you like
“I told you.”
“A mugger wants your purse.”
