I stare at the screen until my vision blurs, each document a fresh wound. Shipping manifests, bank transfers, shell companies—all bearing Ano’s signature. My father’s signature. The same elegant scrawl that once signed my birthday cards now authorizes the sale of human lives.
Roberto and I have accumulated enough evidence to bury him ten times over. The trafficking network spans continents, generating millions through human misery. Each transaction record reveals another layer of calculated cruelty. How could the man who taught me about honor and integrity build an empire on broken souls?
My stomach churns as I remember his lectures about business ethics and responsibility to society. All while he was counting profits from trafficking innocent women. I know why he did it—the same reason he does everything. Money. Power. Control. The Holy Trinity of Ano Montoni’s existence.
I force my attention back to the documents, pushing away memories of family dinners and fabricated morality. The witness Roberto mentioned is crucial—not just for their testimony, but for what they possess. Original documents. Physical proof that even Ano’s army of lawyers can’t dismiss as digital manipulation. The kind of evidence that makes headlines stick, that turns investigations into convictions.
We need those originals. When this story breaks, there can’t be a single crack in our case, not one loose thread for Ano’s people to unravel. I’ve seen how he destroys his enemies and thoroughly erases threats to his reputation. There won’t be a second chance at this exposure.
I close each encrypted window methodically, muscle memory guiding my fingers across the keyboard. One by one, Roberto’s warnings vanish behind security protocols I’ve refined over years of dangerous investigations. My heart rate steadies with each familiar step of digital sanitization. This routine has saved my life more times than I can count.
The USB drive slides free with a soft click. I tuck it back into its hiding spot within the floral notepad, surrounded by innocuous scribblings and grocery lists. Hidden in plain sight—a trick I learned the hard way.
My coffee has gone cold, forgotten during the intense focus on reading Roberto’s intel.
With a sigh, I head back to the kitchen. The space feels different without Remy’s overwhelming presence—emptier but somehow less suffocating. The coffee machine hums to life under my touch, a small comfort in this gilded cage.
The digital display on the microwave catches my eye—12:45. I blink, surprised by how time has slipped away. My head throbs, a dull reminder of missed meals and too much tension. Opening the fridge, I stare at its contents, trying to remember my last proper meal. Yesterday? The day before? The dates blur together in my mind.
The headache intensifies as I realize how deeply I’ve fallen into my old habits. So focused on the investigation, on staying one step ahead, that basic needs become afterthoughts. It’s a dangerous pattern—one that could lead to mistakes. And in this game, with these players, I can’t afford a single misstep.
I stare into the fridge, the cool air washing over my face as my thoughts spiral. The pristine shelves mock me with their organization—everything in its place, just like Remy himself. My stomach growls, but I can’t focus on food.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter, gripping the door handle tighter.
What the hell was I thinking, running to him? Sure, hiding in plain sight made sense in theory. Who would expect me to seek shelter with Chicago’s most notorious fixer? But now, standing in his kitchen after last night…
“Get it together, Eve.”
I grab a yogurt without really seeing it. Ano’s growing desperation changes everything. My father’s never been the type to leave loose ends, and now he’s clearing his schedule? Canceling board meetings? That’s not the calculated predator I grew up with—that’s a man backed into a corner.
And here I am, betting everything on Remy fucking Harding.
“Christ.” I slam the fridge door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the empty kitchen. “Real professional.”
I lean against the counter, rolling the cold yogurt container between my palms. Eight years ago, I knew exactly who Remy was—or thought I did. Now? He operates in shadows I’ve only glimpsed while investigating Chicago’s underbelly. The stories about him… some sound like myths, others like warnings.
“And you just had to sleep with him.”
My reflection in the chrome appliances accuses me of mussed hair and kiss-bruised lips. Last night proved one thing—my judgment gets spectacularly fucked when he’s involved. One touch and years of carefully maintained distance crumbled.
The yogurt container crumples slightly in my grip. I’ve spent years building this case, cultivating sources, and protecting witnesses. Roberto, my team, and everyone who trusted me with their stories—they’re all counting on me to expose this trafficking ring. To bring down Ano Montoni and his empire of human misery.
And what did I do? I ran straight to a man who makes his living burying secrets for people exactly like my father.
“Some investigative journalist you are,” I scoff, pushing away from the counter. “Let a great lay cloud your judgment.”
But it wasn’t just sex, was it? The way Remy watched me made it seem like he was cataloging every breath. The possessive grip when he kissed me in front of Marcus. The calculated tenderness when he—
“Stop it.” I dig my nails into my palms. “Focus on what matters.”
The real question isn’t whether I can trust Remy—I can’t. Not in the current circumstances. Not with the fact that Ano is going all out to get me. But if I can’t stay safe with Remy, where can I go?
Chapter 9
The city sprawls beneath my feet like a conquered kingdom, but for the first time in years, I’m not the one in control. And I hate it.
The destroyed cameras in Eve’s room flicker on my security feed—black screens that mock my authority. My jaw clenches. She knew exactly where they were and tore them out, even those that were hidden from sight. She didn’t know I had turned them off, at least temporarily.
