Chapter 2
Callum’s expression hardened.
“They hit you.”
“Take it.”
“Run.”
He leaned closer.
“They don’t hold your wrists.”
“Kick your leg out.”
“And cut you carefully enough to make a point.”
His eyes locked onto hers.
“Who did you talk to?”
“No one.”
The answer came sharply.
“I don’t talk to anybody.”
Her fear broke into anger.
“I work.”
“I visit my mother’s nursing home.”
“I do your appraisals.”
“And I go home.”
Then:
“I don’t know anyone in your world.”
“Then why you?”
“I don’t know.”
The words tore out of her.
A tear ran across the dirt on her cheek.
Sadie wiped it away angrily.
“I was walking from the station.”
She told him about the alley beside the bodega.
2 men stepped out.
She offered them her purse immediately.
“I told them to take it.”
Her fingers moved unconsciously toward the bruised wrist.
“But the bigger one laughed.”
“He grabbed my arm.”
Callum remained still.
“Go on.”
Sadie closed her eyes.
“He said…”
She struggled to force the sentence out.
“Tell the Roman that his assets are unprotected.”
Callum did not move.
Sadie continued.
“He kicked my leg out.”
“I fell.”
“The other one had a knife.”
“He cut my leg.”
“Then they took the portfolio and walked away.”
The Roman.
It was an old name.
Callum had not used it since he was 22 and rising through the South Side by leaving bodies behind him.
Only 1 family still called him that.
The O’Bannions.
The Irish syndicate he was currently forcing out of the dockyards.
They had not attacked a warehouse.
They had not struck 1 of his soldiers.
They had identified the quiet civilian woman who authenticated his art and hurt her instead.
They had made her part of the war.
Callum looked toward the damaged ankle.
The anger inside him changed.
Something heavier settled beneath it.
Sadie worked for him.
She existed under his protection whether she knew it or not.
“They took the portfolio?”
Sadie nodded.
“Yes.”
Then:
“I’m sorry.”
Her voice dropped.
“The original provenance papers were in there.”
“I know you need them for Thursday’s auction.”
“I tried to hold on to it, but—”
“Sadie.”
Callum interrupted.
“Fuck the papers.”
She blinked.
He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket.
Then, with unexpected precision, he wrapped it around the cut and tied it tightly enough to slow the bleeding without increasing her pain.
“Gabe.”
“Yeah, boss?”
“We’re not going to the club.”
Callum looked at Sadie.
“Take us to the penthouse.”
Then:
“Call Dr. Evans.”
“20 minutes.”
Sadie immediately protested.
“No.”
“I don’t need a private doctor.”
“I can go to a clinic tomorrow.”
Callum tied the knot and lifted his eyes.
The controlled businessman had disappeared.
The man facing her now looked like a predator who had discovered another predator hunting inside his territory.
“You aren’t going to a clinic.”
Then:
“You aren’t going home.”
“And you aren’t going anywhere without 2 of my men outside your door until I say otherwise.”
“You can’t do that.”
Sadie’s voice rose.
“I’m not part of this.”
Callum reached toward her face and moved a damp strand of hair away from her cheek.
She inhaled sharply.
“You are now.”
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of a glass-and-steel tower above Lake Michigan.
It was sterile, expensive, and remote.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Slate flooring.
Minimalist Italian furniture.
The place resembled Callum himself.
Cold.
Controlled.
Difficult to approach.
Sadie never touched the floor after leaving the elevator.
The doors opened, and Callum simply lifted her into his arms.
She gasped and instinctively wrapped both arms around his neck.
He smelled of cologne, rain, and the faint acrid trace of gunpowder.
He carried her without visible effort and lowered her carefully onto a gray velvet sofa.
“Don’t move.”
Callum crossed toward the wet bar.
He poured amber liquor into a heavy crystal glass and brought it back.
“Drink.”
He placed it in her hands.
“It’ll help with the shock.”
Sadie stared at the liquid.
Her hands shook hard enough to send it against the rim.
She took a small drink.
The alcohol burned down her throat.
She coughed.
But gradually, the shivering weakened.
“Thank you.”
Callum dragged a leather ottoman closer and sat directly in front of her.
He removed his suit jacket, threw it over a chair, and rolled his shirt sleeves over muscular forearms marked with faded ink.
“The doctor is 10 minutes away.”
His eyes moved across her face.
“Finish the drink.”
Sadie obeyed.
The alcohol loosened some of the terror, leaving exhaustion behind.
She looked toward him.
Callum Russo was 35, built like a heavyweight fighter and carrying the eyes of a man who had seen the bottom of hell and decided to pave it.
Sadie had worked for him for 6 months.
Their interactions had always been professional.
Documents exchanged for thick cash envelopes.
She had told herself that made the work safe enough.
She authenticated paintings.
She did not carry weapons.
Tonight, that distinction had collapsed.
“Why are you doing this?”
Callum looked at her.
“Doing what?”
“Helping me.”
Sadie gripped the glass.
“Bringing me here.”
Then:
“I’m a liability.”
“They took the papers.”
“They know I work for you.”
She swallowed.
“In your world, compromised assets usually don’t get penthouses and doctors.”
Her voice quieted.
“They get shallow graves.”
A humorless smile touched Callum’s mouth.
“You watch too many movies.”
“I read the news.”
Sadie shot back.
“I know what happened to the union representative who spoke to the federal government last year.”
Callum leaned forward.
“The union representative stole from my family.”
His voice remained low.
“You are a civilian.”
“Someone hurt you because my enemies are too cowardly to strike me directly.”
Then he raised 1 hand and traced the line of her jaw with his knuckles.
The touch lasted only a moment.
“They touched something of mine.”
Sadie’s stomach tightened at the possessive implication.
“They broke my toy.”
Callum’s voice was almost soft.
“Now I break them.”
“I’m not your toy.”
Sadie stiffened.
“I’m an independent contractor.”
Callum laughed.
A low, rough sound.
May you like
“An independent contractor.”
He looked at her.
