Chapter 1 - Ten Minutes LateThe first rule of surviving a man like Callum Russo was simple.
Never show weakness.
The second was even simpler.
Never keep him waiting.
Sadie Miller broke both rules on a freezing Tuesday night.
Callum sat in the rear booth of the Continental, watching the gold hands of his watch move past nine.
Nine-ten.
His scotch had gone watery.
His patience had gone with it.
“Another drink, Mr. Russo?” the waiter asked.
“No.”
The waiter disappeared immediately.
Callum tapped his silver lighter against the mahogany table.
Sadie was never late.
She was usually fifteen minutes early, carrying a leather portfolio and enough documentation to tell him whether a painting was worth eight million dollars or eight dollars.
Tonight, she had apparently decided his time did not matter.
Callum had already chosen the words he would use.
Our arrangement is over.
Then the restaurant doors opened.
Cold Chicago rain blew inside.
Sadie appeared beneath the chandelier.
Callum stopped tapping the lighter.
Her trench coat was soaked. Wet blonde hair clung to her face. She handed a dripping umbrella to the hostess and started across the restaurant.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
“Mr. Russo.”
She stopped beside his booth.
“I apologize. The Red Line stalled. I had to walk the last six blocks.”
Callum looked at her.
“You’re late.”
“I know.”
“Ten minutes.”
“I know.”
She was shivering.
Still, she held the leather portfolio against her chest like a shield.
“Sit.”
Sadie obeyed.
The moment she shifted her weight, she inhaled sharply.
Callum saw it.
A tiny reaction.
Most men would not have noticed.
Callum Russo had survived because he noticed everything.
Sadie nearly collapsed onto the leather seat.
His eyes dropped beneath the table.
Her black tights were torn near the knee.
Her left shoe was ruined.
The heel was almost completely detached.
Mud covered the leather.
Something darker stained the side.
Blood.
Callum’s irritation disappeared.
Sadie immediately opened her portfolio.
“I brought the provenance documents for the Caravaggio sketch.”
Callum said nothing.
“It’s authentic,” she continued quickly. “The paper is consistent with the late sixteenth century. Pigment analysis also…”
“Why are you limping?”
Her hands stopped.
“I slipped.”
“Where?”
“The platform.”
Callum leaned back.
“You slipped.”
“Yes.”
“Look at me.”
Sadie slowly raised her eyes.
Callum had spent enough time across tables from liars to recognize one.
Sadie was terrible at it.
He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.
She flinched.
Not because he squeezed.
He hadn’t.
Callum turned her wrist slightly.
Dark bruises surrounded it.
Four marks on one side.
One on the other.
Finger-shaped.
His expression changed.
“A fall did that?”
Sadie pulled her hand away.
“It was nothing.”
“Sadie.”
“It was a mugging.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying again.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Then stop asking questions you already think you know the answer to.”
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Callum stood.
Sadie blinked.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re leaving.”
“I haven’t finished the report.”
“I don’t care about the report.”
“Yesterday you threatened to fire me over a missing customs stamp.”
“Yesterday you weren’t bleeding into your shoe.”
Callum dropped a hundred-dollar bill beside his untouched scotch.
Sadie closed the portfolio.
“I can get myself home.”
“You’re not going home.”
Her face changed.
That interested him.
Not confusion.
Fear.
“Why?”
Callum studied her carefully.
“Because whoever did this might know where you live.”
Sadie went completely still.
That was the moment he knew.
This had not been random.
Callum leaned closer.
“Who did this to you?”
Sadie whispered, “Please.”
“Give me a name.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Her voice dropped even lower.
“Because he works for you.”
Callum did not move.
Behind him, one of his bodyguards slowly turned.
Callum’s voice became dangerously quiet.
“Say that again.”
Sadie looked toward the restaurant doors.
“He said if I told you, I wouldn’t make it home tomorrow.”
Callum picked up her portfolio.
“Then he made a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
Callum offered her his arm.
“He assumed I’d let you walk home alone.”
Outside, his black sedan waited beneath the rain.
Sadie hesitated.
Callum noticed that too.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I trust you more than him.”
“Who is him?”
She shook her head.
“Not here.”
Callum opened the rear door.
She got inside.
He followed.
For several blocks, neither spoke.
Chicago blurred beyond the tinted glass.
Then Callum’s phone vibrated.
One message.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
He opened it.
His expression hardened.
It showed Sadie entering the Continental.
Taken from across the street.
Timestamp: 8:57 p.m.
A second photograph arrived.
Sadie leaving her office that afternoon.
A third.
Her apartment building.
Callum stared at the screen.
The message beneath the photos contained only seven words.
You should have let her come home alone.
Callum slowly lowered the phone.
Sadie looked at him.
“What is it?”
He turned the screen toward her.
The color drained from her face.
“I told you,” she whispered.
Callum’s jaw tightened.
“You never told me how long this has been happening.”
Sadie stared at the photograph of her building.
“Three weeks.”
His eyes snapped toward her.
“Three weeks?”
“I thought it would stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I gave him what he wanted.”
Callum went silent.
“What did you give him?”
Sadie’s fingers tightened around the portfolio.
She looked at Callum as though she had finally reached the edge of a cliff.
Then she whispered the words that changed everything.
“The original ledger.”
Callum froze.
“What ledger?”
Sadie looked out into the rain.
May you like
“The one you buried ten years ago.”
And for the first time that night, Callum Russo looked afraid.
