Footsteps. Slow.
The footsteps stop in front of me.
Silence stretches. I feel eyes on me. Studying. Assessing.
"I know you're awake, Miss Sartori."
The voice is smooth. Cultured. No accent I can place. Not Chicago. Not New York. Somewhere else.
I don't move.
"The breathing gives it away." A pause. "When someone's unconscious, their breath is deeper. Slower. Yours is too controlled."
Damn it.
I lift my head. Open my eyes.
A man stands three feet away. Tall—maybe six-two. Broad shoulders beneath a black suit. Dark hair swept back from his face. Strong jaw. High cheekbones.
Handsome.
His skin is olive-toned. Mediterranean, maybe. Or Latin American. I can't tell. His features could be Italian. Could be Mexican. Could be something else entirely.
But I've never seen him before.
Not at family gatherings. Not at business meetings. Not in any of the files I've studied over the years.
He's not from Chicago. Not from any of the families I know.
"Who the hell are you?" My voice comes out rough. Angry.
Good. Let him think I'm just angry. Not terrified.
The man tilts his head. Studies me like I'm an interesting specimen. "Direct. I appreciate that."
"Answer the question."
"Or what?" A slight smile curves his lips. "You'll do what, exactly? Tied to a chair. Surrounded by my men. No weapons. No backup."
"Dmitri will find me."
"Ah yes. The Russian." The man's smile widens. "Your fiancé. How romantic. Love blooming amid violence and bloodshed."
"He'll kill you."
"Perhaps." The man moves closer. Circles around behind me. I feel his presence at my back. "But first, he has to find you. And by the time he does..." He trails off. Lets the threat hang.
I twist my head, trying to see him. "What do you want?"
"Want?" He completes his circle, stopping in front of me again. "That's a complicated question, Miss Sartori."
"It's really not."
He laughs.
"You're right. It's quite simple, actually." He crouches down. Brings himself to eye level. "I want what everyone wants. Power. Control. Territory."
"Chicago's divided. You can't just?—"
