Chapter 1 - THE MAN WHO FINALLY SLEPT
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
Victor Russo looked at Chloe for several seconds before answering.
The truth sounded ridiculous.
Because you were the first person who had slept beside me without wanting something.
Because your breathing made the ghosts shut up.
Because for five hours, I forgot I was Victor Russo.
Instead, he said, “You looked like you needed the sleep.”
Chloe stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You let an employee sleep in your bed because she looked tired?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds irresponsible.”
“It is irresponsible.”
Victor almost smiled.
Almost.
Chloe pressed the cold bottle of water against her forehead.
“I should go downstairs.”
“You should go to a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“You have a fever.”
“I have bills.”
Victor’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
A tiny tightening around his eyes.
But Chloe noticed.
“Those are two different problems,” he said.
“Not where I come from.”
She moved toward the door.
The room tilted.
Victor caught her before she hit the floor.
This time, Chloe didn’t have enough strength to protest.
Her forehead landed against his chest.
His arm went around her waist.
For one strange second, neither moved.
Victor could smell laundry soap in her hair.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing calculated.
Just soap.
Chloe pulled away.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“That’s easy for rich people to say.”
Victor raised an eyebrow.
Even sick, she apparently possessed enough courage to insult him.
He liked that more than he should have.
A knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Victor’s entire body changed.
The softness vanished.
“Who is it?”
“Mrs. Gable, sir.”
Chloe went pale.
Victor opened the door halfway.
The sixty-year-old head housekeeper stood outside wearing a dark robe over her uniform.
Mrs. Gable’s eyes moved past Victor.
Saw Chloe.
Saw the unmade bed.
Saw everything she absolutely should not have seen.
Her face became perfectly blank.
Which was worse than shock.
“Mr. Russo.”
“Mrs. Gable.”
“Is there something you require?”
“A doctor.”
Her gaze flicked toward Chloe.
“I see.”
“No, you don’t.”
Mrs. Gable straightened.
Victor lowered his voice.
“Call Dr. Romano. Tell him to come immediately.”
“For Miss Bennett?”
“Yes.”
Chloe stepped forward.
“No.”
Both looked at her.
She swallowed.
“I appreciate it, Mr. Russo, but I’m going home.”
“You nearly fainted.”
“I can faint at home.”
Victor stared at her.
Mrs. Gable looked suspiciously like she was suppressing something.
Possibly amusement.
Victor pointed toward the bed.
“Sit.”
Chloe blinked.
“What?”
“Sit down before you fall down.”
“You can’t order me to—”
“I literally employ you.”
“That doesn’t mean you own me.”
Silence.
Mrs. Gable’s eyebrows rose.
Victor Russo had men twice Chloe’s size who avoided contradicting him.
Chloe Bennett, wearing a wrinkled maid’s uniform and looking half dead from fever, had just told him he didn’t own her.
Victor slowly nodded.
“You’re correct.”
That answer surprised everyone.
Including Victor.
He turned to Mrs. Gable.
“Call the doctor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Mrs. Gable?”
She paused.
“Whatever you think happened here…”
“I think Miss Bennett became ill and accidentally fell asleep.”
Victor glanced at Chloe.
“That is exactly what happened.”
Mrs. Gable’s gaze softened by half a degree.
“Yes, sir.”
She left.
Chloe sat reluctantly on the edge of the bed.
Victor reached for his phone.
“Who do you live with?”
Her eyes immediately sharpened.
“Why?”
“Someone should know you’re sick.”
“I’ll call.”
“Fine.”
She turned slightly away and dialed.
Victor had no intention of listening.
Then he heard the voice on speaker.
“Chloe?”
A boy.
Young.
Worried.
“Hey, Tommy.”
“You’re still at work?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s two-thirty.”
“I know.”
“Are you okay?”
“I caught a little cold.”
“You sound terrible.”
“I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
Victor remembered those exact words from nowhere.
Not literally.
But he knew the type.
People who said they were fine because the alternative was admitting no one was coming to rescue them.
Chloe continued quietly.
“Did you take your medication?”
A pause.
“Most of it.”
“Tommy.”
“I’m saving the last two doses.”
“For what?”
“The refill is Friday.”
Chloe closed her eyes.
“Take it.”
“But—”
“Take it tonight.”
“How are we paying for Friday?”
“I said I’m handling it.”
Victor looked toward the windows.
His jaw tightened.
After Chloe ended the call, he asked, “Your brother?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Fifteen.”
“What medication?”
“That’s personal.”
Victor nodded once.
It should have ended there.
Instead, he found himself thinking about Friday.
Dr. Romano arrived thirty minutes later.
He examined Chloe and diagnosed influenza complicated by severe exhaustion and dehydration.
“She needs bed rest,” he said.
“I can’t take three days off,” Chloe replied.
“You can,” Victor said.
She glared at him.
Dr. Romano looked between them and wisely began putting his instruments away.
“I’ll write an antiviral prescription.”
Victor said, “Have it delivered.”
Chloe said, “I can pick it up.”
Victor ignored her.
“Also arrange transportation to her apartment.”
“I can take the train.”
Victor finally looked at her.
“Bennett.”
“What?”
“You have two choices.”
She folded her arms.
“Let’s hear them.”
“Driver.”
“And?”
“Driver.”
Despite herself, Chloe laughed.
It was weak.
Barely more than air.
Victor still felt it somewhere inconveniently close to his chest.
An hour later, she left the estate in a black SUV with medicine, soup packed by the kitchen, and strict instructions from Mrs. Gable not to return until Friday.
Victor stood in the upstairs window watching the taillights disappear through the gate.
Behind him, a voice said, “No.”
Victor didn’t turn.
Marco Santoro had been Victor’s closest friend since they were sixteen.
He was also the only man alive who could walk into Victor’s bedroom uninvited without being shot.
“No what?” Victor asked.
“No to whatever is happening inside your head.”
“Nothing is happening.”
Marco came to stand beside him.
“Victor, I’ve watched you negotiate with federal investigators, union bosses, smugglers, politicians, and three different men who wanted you dead.”
“And?”
“I’ve never seen you stare at a departing housemaid like someone just drove away with a kidney.”
Victor turned slowly.
Marco raised both hands.
“I’m simply observing.”
“Observe quietly.”
Marco’s smile vanished.
“Salvatore DeLuca called again.”
Victor walked toward his desk.
“About his daughter?”
“About the alliance.”
“No.”
“He’s not asking anymore.”
Victor stopped.
Marco placed a folder on the desk.
Inside were photographs from three nights earlier.
Salvatore DeLuca.
His daughter Francesca.
Victor sitting across from them at Bellini’s.
Francesca was beautiful in the obvious way.
Black hair.
Perfect posture.
Red dress.
A woman raised knowing every room would notice when she entered.
Her father controlled enough territory on the East Coast to make marriage to her strategically convenient.
Which was exactly why Victor wanted no part of it.
Marco said, “Salvatore thinks rejecting Francesca publicly embarrassed him.”
“I rejected a business arrangement.”
“He thinks you rejected his family.”
“That sounds like his emotional problem.”
“Emotional men with thirty armed employees become everybody’s problem.”
Victor closed the folder.
“What does he want?”
“For you to reconsider.”
“No.”
Marco sighed.
“There’s something else.”
Victor waited.
“Someone has been asking questions about your household staff.”
That caught his attention.
“What kind of questions?”
“Names. Families. Addresses.”
Victor’s eyes turned cold.
“Who?”
“We’re checking.”
Marco hesitated.
“One name came up twice.”
Victor already knew.
He hated that he knew.
“Say it.”
“Chloe Bennett.”
The room became very still.
Victor’s voice dropped.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Find out.”
Marco studied him.
“I will.”
Victor walked to the window again.
Chicago’s winter darkness stretched beyond the glass.
Somewhere beyond the gates, Chloe was going home to a sick fifteen-year-old brother and a life held together with unpaid bills.
Victor told himself she was merely an employee.
Nothing more.
He told himself the strange peace he had found beside her had been exhaustion.
Nothing more.
He told himself whoever was asking questions about Chloe Bennett had probably done so for reasons unrelated to him.
Then his phone rang.
Unknown number.
Victor answered.
No one spoke.
A photograph appeared on his screen.
Chloe entering her Oak Park apartment.
Taken less than three minutes earlier.
Underneath it were five words.
You should have married Francesca.
Victor stared at the message.
Marco saw his face.
“What?”
Victor handed him the phone.
Marco read it.
The humor disappeared from his eyes.
Victor reached for his jacket.
“Get the car.”
“Victor—”
“Now.”
Because for the first time in six years, Victor Russo had discovered exactly what his enemies needed to make him afraid.
Not a warehouse.
Not money.
Not territory.
May you like
A twenty-four-year-old housemaid who had fallen asleep in the wrong bed.
And somebody else had already figured it out.
