A world I was now tasked to protect, or to consume.
She was easy to find.
The rain had begun its relentless descent, a silver curtain drawn across the bruised twilight of Chicago. It slicked the streets, turning the grimy asphalt into a shimmering, inky mirror reflecting the garish neon signs that bled into the encroaching darkness. From my vantage point, nestled within the tinted privacy of a black Cadillac Escalade parked discreetly a block away, I observed the city’s nocturnal theater unfold. The usual symphony of sirens, distant horns, and the low thrum of traffic was amplified by the drumming of water on the roof, creating a melancholic, almost mournful soundtrack to my observations. I wasn’t here for the music; I was here for the performance, and more specifically, for the lead actress I had yet to truly see.
My eyes, sharp and unblinking as a hawk’s, scanned the opposite side of the street. The establishment was a discreet, high-end art gallery, its façade understated, almost aloof, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy of the entertainment district a few blocks over. This was the kind of place the Vitale name, in its public persona, might endorse. Tonight, however, it served as a hunting ground. I was here to observe Savannah Scott, the woman who, for reasons still shrouded in the necessary ambiguity of family affairs, had been flagged for my particular attention. The briefing had been sparse, laced with the usual veiled warnings and the implicit threat of severe repercussions should I fail. A‘potential disruption’was all Cesar had called her, a delicate phrase for a woman who, according to fragmented reports, was becoming an inconvenient presence.
I adjusted the angle of the side-view mirror, the movement almost imperceptible. My gaze swept over the patrons filtering in and out of the gallery, a diverse collection of the city’s elite, their faces illuminated by the warm glow spilling from the entrance. Wealth and influence were a common currency here, the air thick with the subtle arrogance of those accustomed to getting their way. But none of them was my quarry. I was looking for a specific silhouette, a particular grace, a detail that would set her apart from the crowd. Cesar had insisted on a personal assessment, a firsthand glimpse. “One must understand the terrain before charting the course, Massimo,” he had said, his voice a low rumble that promised more than mere advice.
Then, I saw her.
She emerged from a sleek, dark sedan, its make and model unremarkable, blending seamlessly into the urban tableau. For a fleeting moment, the streetlights caught her, outlining her form against the rain-streaked pavement. She was shorter than I’d anticipated, her stride confident, purposeful. She wore a simple, elegant coat, the color of deep sapphire, that draped her slenderframe with an effortless sophistication. Her hair, a cascade of dark blonde waves, was gathered loosely at the nape of her neck, tendrils escaping to caress her cheekbones in the damp air. Even from this distance, through the rain and the tinted glass, there was an undeniable presence about her, a quiet magnetism that drew the eye.
My breath hitched; a sensation so unexpected it was almost jarring. I was accustomed to assessing threats, vulnerabilities, assets. I analyzed power structures, calculated risks, and dissected motivations with a cold, detached precision.
This... this was different.
It wasn’t the sterile evaluation of a target’s security detail or their known associates. It was a sudden, involuntary recognition of something that resonated beyond the parameters of my assignment.
She paused for a moment, turning back to the car, speaking briefly to the driver before closing the door. Her face, tilted slightly upward as if acknowledging the persistent drizzle, was illuminated for a second by the car’s interior light. It was merely a profile, but even that brief glimpse registered something that snagged my attention. Her jawline was defined, her nose straight, and there was a subtle curve to her lips that suggested a hint of amusement, or perhaps just the natural resting state of a woman who felt at ease in her own skin. Her eyes, I imagined, would be dark, intelligent.
I found myself cataloguing details with an unusual intensity. The way she held herself—not rigidly, but with a poised self-assurance. The way she moved—fluidly, without hesitation. There was no ostentatious display of wealth, no overt bid for attention, yet she commanded it. It was the subtle power of someone who didn’t need to shout to be heard.
The gallery’s door swung open, and she stepped inside, vanishing into the warm, inviting light. The moment was over,the brief apparition gone, leaving behind only the persistent drumming of the rain and a curious stillness within my chest. I leaned back, the leather of the seat cool against my skin. This was not part of the plan. My mission was to gather intelligence, to understand her role, her potential impact on the delicate equilibrium within the family. I was to be a shadow, an observer, a detached analyst.
But that fleeting glimpse... it had planted a seed.
It wasn’t just the aesthetic appeal, though she possessed it in abundance. It was something deeper, something that pricked at the edges of my carefully constructed composure. There was a defiance in her posture, a quiet strength that I recognized, a kindred spirit perhaps, though I’d never considered myself prone to such romantic notions. My world was built on pragmatism, on the brutal realities of power and survival. Yet, the image of her, silhouetted against the rainy night, lingered behind my closed eyelids.
I ran a thumb over my jaw, a thoughtful gesture. The assignment was clear: identify her threat level, understand her connections, and report back. I was to determine if she was a pawn, a player, or something more volatile. But the clinical assessment I had prepared for myself felt suddenly inadequate. The cool detachment I always employed had been momentarily breached.
There was nothing known about her, just the possibility of her being connected to a rival family, someone to disturb the delicate power balance. The specifics were hazy, deliberately so, allowing me the latitude to investigate without preconceived notions. But the target herself, this Savannah Scott, had begun to solidify in my mind, not as a mere name on a dossier, but as a tangible entity, a presence that had, however briefly, registered in my world.
My gaze drifted back to the gallery’s entrance, the soft glow now a beacon in the deepening gloom. I wondered what she was doing inside, who she was talking to, what thoughts occupied her mind. Was she aware of the scrutiny she was under? Or was she blissfully ignorant, moving through the city’s labyrinthine corridors unaware of the predatory gaze fixed upon her? The thought sent a subtle ripple of unease through me.
Ignorance could be a dangerous weapon in the hands of the unsuspecting.
I allowed myself another moment, letting the cool, rain-washed air fill my lungs. I was a man of strategy, of patience. I would not be swayed by a fleeting impression. Yet, this initial glimpse had been more than just an observation. It had been an awakening, a subtle shift in the carefully calibrated landscape of my mission. It was the first crack in my professional armor, a hairline fracture that hinted at the potential for a much larger breach. I had seen my target, and in that brief encounter, something within me had been irrevocably altered. The clinical assessment had, against my will, morphed into something far more complex, far more dangerous. The weight of the Vitale name, the responsibilities it carried, suddenly felt heavier, more complicated, now that my focus was no longer solely on the abstract threat, but on the very real, and surprisingly captivating, face of Savannah Scott.
I initiated the ignition, the engine purring to life, a low, predatory growl that cut through the persistent patter of the rain. The Cadillac began to move, gliding smoothly away from the curb, its tinted windows an impenetrable barrier against the outside world. My gaze remained fixed on the gallery for a few more moments, a silent promise forming in the depths of my stormy eyes. I would see her again. I would learn everything about her. The mission had just become far more personal than I had ever anticipated. The city, with its endless tapestry ofshadows and secrets, was my domain. And now, a new thread had been woven into that tapestry, a thread that demanded my undivided attention. My quarry was no longer just an objective; she was a mystery, a puzzle I was now compelled to solve, not just for the sake of my family, but for reasons I was only beginning to understand, reasons that resonated with a dangerous, nascent curiosity.
Chapter Three
Miranda
The wind whipped mercilessly through the tree-lined paths of the sprawling Chicago campus, sending clusters of golden leaves skittering across the slate walkways as I dashed past the old library, my long blonde hair loose beneath my knit cap, cheeks flushed from the biting cold. I clutched my books to my chest and anxiously checked my watch—I was going to be late for class.
I quickened my pace, boots thudding on the concrete, weaving between huddled students bundled in thick coats. My breath came in quick little clouds, nerves and the chill mingling in my chest. Just as I turned the corner by the Student Center, a strong, familiar arm caught me around the waist and pulled me into the narrow space behind a red brick building.
“Hey!” I gasped, startled, as Oliver’s laughter filled the air, carefree and warm against the cutting wind. He pressed me close, his grin mischievous. “You’re going to make me late,” I protested, frowning, my voice more annoyed than amused. I tried to wriggle free, but he only pouted, leaning in as he brushed a gentle kiss on my cheek.
“I just wanted to thank you for going with me last night.”
For a split second, I softened, allowing myself a brief smile before I pushed him away with a frustrated sigh. “It was my pleasure, but I really have to go,” I insisted, shoving my books higher in my arms, my mind already racing ahead to the lecture I was about to miss.
As I hurried away, I couldn’t help glancing over my shoulder, Oliver’s laughter still echoing in my ears. Shadows clung to the edges of the buildings, and for a fleeting moment, I had the odd sensation that someone else was watching—someone hidden just beyond the warm glow of the campus lamps. Stopping for a split second, I glanced around and saw only students like me, rushing to class. Frowning, I pressed on, determined not to let my imagination run wild.
I was safe. My brother said so.
