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He thought about this, his hand sweaty around mine in a way that reassured me. With our faces only a few inches apart, he lifted his free hand, then pressed his finger to his cheek like he was pointing to his emerald irises.

“Go like this,” he instructed.

I pressed my finger beneath my own eye.

“Now swear it, and I’ll know you’re telling the truth.”

“I swear it.”

Chapter 6

Brioni

I pull my coat tighter as I walk to the Red Line station. With my collar turned up against the cold, I feel isolated, separate from the bustling world around me. Inside my personal confines, my thoughts roil.

Liam wants me to lie about being his fiancée, to protect me from Harrison and keep me safe. He claims it’s also to buy him time to find the wife he truly needs, but he’s just saying that to make me feel better.

We both know he needs a proper mafia bride, someone I could never be. I didn’t grow up in the world of arranged marriages and rushed weddings and family alliances and blood debts.

We grew up together, but I didn’t grow up in Liam’s world.

As I enter the station, I pull my phone out of my pocket, hoping it hasn’t been frozen with a threatening smile again. What I see is almost worse. By the time it boots up, I’m in front of the turnstiles, and my battery’s at one percent. As soon as I open my subway fare app, my phone dies.

With a sigh, I slip it into my pocket and reach for my wallet with my backup CTA card. But my other pocket’s empty. My stomach drops. Frantically, I pat down the rest of my coat and dig my hands into my pants pockets, then double-check all of them. I have my house keys, my dead phone, but no wallet.

Behind me, people start to grumble. I step away from the turnstile and take what shelter I can near the wall. After another desperate search through my pockets, my heart sinks.

“You okay?” A man about my age approaches me, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. He’s well-dressed, like a lawyer or hedge fund manager.

My chest caves with embarrassment to have been noticed like this.

“Did anyone bump into you on the sidewalk?” he asks. He thinks I’ve been pickpocketed.

“No,” I say, finally remembering. I got drunk last night and must’ve left my wallet at the pub. I sag with disappointment in myself.

“Here.” He pulls out his wallet and hands me his own CTA card, which I accept without thinking.

When I try to give it back, he shows me the app on his phone. He’s got twenty-eight days left on his unlimited-ride pass. He gestures to the card in my hand.

“I don’t need that,” he says.

I do need it. I have to get back to the pub, and without my wallet or a charged phone, I’ll be walking all the way to the South Side in the cold.

“Thanks,” I say weakly.

“My pleasure.” He follows me through the turnstile, a little too close for comfort. “Where’re you headed?” he asks.

“Oh, um. South.” I move toward the southbound tracks.

“Me too,” he says, and my empty stomach churns. Dressed like that, he looks like he should be headed north into work. Then I remember it’s Saturday. I can’t guess why he’s in a suit and a peacoat, but he’s behaving like he has all the time in the world to accompany me south.

Other people gather around us as we wait for the train, and with the press of the crowd, the man stands even closer to me. I try again to hand back his card.

“It’s yours,” he says genially.

But his grin is unsettling, reminding me of my Harrison-hacked phone screen.

“I’m Scott, by the way.” He extends his hand, but I keep mine in my pockets as I give him a polite nod.