"I have a team," I reply, my voice completely flat. "Where did the leak originate?"
"I don't know. The article cites an 'anonymous source close to the Vance family'. But Simon gave the exclusive quote confirming the document is real. He’s playing the victim. He’s saying you manipulated a vulnerable woman to get back at him."
A cold, absolute rage settles in the center of my chest. It isn't the hot, reactive anger of a normal man. It is the surgical, calculating fury of an enforcer who has just identified a target.
"Are you at your office?" I ask.
"Yes."
"Stay there. Do not speak to the press. Do not issue a statement on Audrey’s behalf." I walk toward the heavy velvet curtain separating the viewing room from the rest of the boutique. "I will handle Simon."
"Malcolm, wait," Vivian says, her voice dropping. "Audrey’s copy of the contract was in my apartment. I kept it in my safe. I checked the safe ten minutes ago. The document is gone."
I stop moving.
The pieces of the puzzle snap into place with brutal clarity.
Russo didn't find the contract. Simon didn't hire a corporate spy to hack my servers. He didn't need to. He just needed someone to walk into a mid-level associate’s apartment and take a piece of paper.
"Has your apartment been compromised?" I ask.
"No forced entry," Vivian replies, her voice tight. "But my landlord has a master key, and he’s been trying to force me out to raise the rent for months. If Simon’s people offered him enough cash..."
"Understood. Do not go back to your apartment tonight. Grant will arrange a secure hotel suite for you."
I end the call and slide the phone into my pocket.
I turn back to Audrey.
She is standing exactly where I left her. She has wrapped her arms around her waist, the thin straps of the gold dress digging into her shoulders. She looks incredibly fragile, completely exposed in a dress that was meant to be a declaration of war.
"He broke into Vivian’s apartment," she says. It isn't a question. She heard my side of the conversation.
"He paid someone to access the safe," I correct her.
"It doesn't matter how he got it." She lets out a short, bitter laugh, looking down at the vintage ring on her left hand. "He has it. The whole city has it. We’re a joke, Malcolm. The Devil of Chicago and his paid escort."
I cross the room. I don't stop until I am standing directly in front of her.
"Take the dress off," I say quietly.
She flinches, the words hitting her like a physical blow. She looks up at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She thinks I am giving up. She thinks I am telling her to take off the armor because the war is lost and she is no longer required to fight.
"Malcolm, I—"
"Take the dress off, Audrey, and put your clothes back on," I interrupt, my voice dropping to a rough, absolute register. "Because we are leaving this boutique, and we are going to the Tribune building."
She blinks, the tears freezing in her eyes. "What?"
"Simon wants a public spectacle." I reach out, my knuckles brushing against the soft skin of her cheek. "I am going to give him one. But I am not going to let the press photograph you in a dress that looks like a celebration while you are shaking."
I drop my hand and step back, giving her the privacy of the velvet screen.
"Get dressed," I order. "We have ten minutes."
**
The ride to the Tribune Tower takes exactly eight minutes.
