"Can't I?" His eyes—dark brown, almost black—lock onto mine. "The Sartoris and Baganovs just announced an alliance. A marriage. Very public. Very symbolic."
My stomach drops.
"And then," he continues, voice soft, "someone attacked that very public, very symbolic event. Killed several people. Wounded more. And took the bride-to-be."
"You."
"Me." He stands. Brushes invisible dust from his suit pants. "Do you know what happens when an alliance looks weak, Miss Sartori? When the families can't even protect their own at an engagement party?"
I don't answer.
"Other families start to wonder. Start to question. Is this alliance real? Is it strong? Or is it just two desperate organizations clinging to each other?"
"We're not desperate."
"Aren't you?" He walks to the side. Picks up something from a table I didn't notice before. A folder. "The Sartoris lost their heir two years ago. Riccardo, wasn't it? Shot dead. Your brother Bruno paralyzed. Pietro forced to take over when he never wanted the position."
My hands curl into fists behind the chair.
"And the Baganovs." He opens the folder. Flips through pages. "Their pakhan just died. Cancer. Dmitri's barely been in charge a week. Untested. Unproven. Some of his father's old allies are already questioning his leadership."
"He's stronger than you think."
"I'm sure he is." The man closes the folder. Sets it down. "But strength doesn't matter when you're fighting on multiple fronts. When you're trying to hold an alliance together. When you're searching for a missing fiancée."
He moves back to stand in front of me.
"So I'll ask you again, Miss Sartori. What do I want?" He leans down. "I want chaos. I want your families scrambling. I want them weak."
"Why?"
"Because weak families make mistakes. And mistakes create opportunities."
I stare at him. Try to memorize every detail. The small scar above his left eyebrow. The way his right eye is slightly larger than his left. The gold ring on his pinky finger.
Details Dmitri will need when he finds this man.
When he kills him.
"You won't get away with this," I say.
"Won't I?" He straightens. Adjusts his cufflinks. "I already have, Miss Sartori. The attack happened. You're here. And by now, your families are tearing Chicago apart looking for you."
He walks toward the door. Stops. Looks back.
"Get comfortable. You're going to be here a while."
"Wait."
He pauses.
"At least tell me your name." I force my voice steady. "If you're going to kill me, I should know who's responsible."
The man considers this. Then smiles.
"I'm not going to kill you, Miss Sartori. You're worth far more alive." He opens the door. "But my name? You can call meSmoke."
The door closes.
