Chapter One
Emilia “Em” Rivera
The service corridor smelled like industrial cleaner and desperation—mine included.
I pressed my back against the wall, thumb hovering over my voice recorder as I replayed the last thirty seconds of audio. Marco Benedetti’s nervous rasp filled my earpiece—the subcontractor who’d finally agreed to meet after three weeks of evasive texts, his words tumbling over each other like a man who’d decided confession outweighed consequence.
“The foundation work on the Lakefront project—it’s not up to code. Never was. Laurent’s people signed off anyway, and the city inspector? He got a new boat last summer. You didn’t hear that from me.”
I scribbled the detail into my notebook, my handwriting deteriorating into something that would require archaeological interpretation later. New boat. City inspector. Foundation violations. The pieces were clicking together faster than I’d anticipated, which meant I was either onto something massive or walking straight into a trap.
Either way, my editor was going to have an aneurysm when I filed this story.
The gala’s noise drifted through the walls — champagne laughter and string quartet, Chicago’s elite congratulating themselves on their philanthropy while I hunted evidence of their crimes. The Lakefront Development Charity Gala—because nothing said “we care about affordable housing” quite like a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner in a venue that could house three homeless shelters.
I tucked my recorder into my clutch and smoothed down the front of my dress. The black fabric was borrowed from my roommate Jenna, who’d sworn up and down that it made me look “journalist chic” rather than “funeral adjacent.” The jury remained out.
My phone buzzed. Jenna:Any luck with the billionaire takedown?
I typed back:In progress. Contractor just gave me enough for environmental violations.
Jenna:Hot. Get pics of the canapés.
God, I loved that woman.
I was mid-reply when the air in the corridor shifted. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in that unflattering greenish tint that made even supermodels look like they needed a nap. But the man who emerged from the shadows at the end of the hallway didn’t look tired.
He looked dangerous.
Tall. Broad-shouldered in a way that suggested either excellent genetics or a truly punishing gym routine. Dark hair slightly too long for corporate standards, brushing his collar like he couldn’t be bothered with appointments. A trimmed beard that made him look less like a businessman and more like someone who’d knife you in a dark alley and then attend the opera.
His suit probably cost more than my annual salary. The cut was devastating—midnight wool that turned the bad fluorescent lighting into atmosphere. Matte-black cufflinks caught the light as he adjusted his sleeve, and I caught the glint of a watch that screamed I could buy your entire apartment building and turn it into a parking structure.
Storm-gray eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip in a way I immediately resented.
“Digging up dirt, are we?” His voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice that expected answers and usually got them.
I straightened, refusing to let him see the recorder-shaped outline pressing against my clutch. “Only if there’s dirt to find.”
One eyebrow moved. Barely a millimeter, but I caught it.
“And you think you’ll find it hiding in service corridors?” He stepped closer, and I noticed the way two kitchen staff members executed an immediate detour when they spotted him, practically flattening themselves against the opposite wall.
Interesting. People didn’t scramble like that for just anyone.
“I find hiding in service corridors very productive, actually.” I clicked my pen closed with deliberate casualness. “The acoustics are excellent for avoiding small talk about yacht maintenance.”
He looked away for a moment — just a moment — like he needed to.
“You don’t strike me as someone who owns a yacht.”
“Is that an insult or an observation?”
“An observation.” He was close enough now that I could smell him—something expensive and masculine, cedar and leather and a hint of something darker underneath. “Yacht owners have a particular look. You have…”
He paused, those gray eyes conducting a slow inventory. The borrowed dress. The sensible heels chosen for their ability to sprint in, if necessary. The notebook clutched against my chest like a shield.
“Ambition,” he finished. “And a general disdain for people who can afford yacht maintenance.”
