Chapter 1 - The Man Who Was Looking for Me
“Whatever happens next, sweetheart, don't tell them we met by accident. Because there's a reason I've been looking for you.”
For three seconds, I forgot how to breathe.
Vincent Marino was still holding my hand beneath the banquet table.
Outside our ridiculous hiding place, our mothers were discussing marriage arrangements as casually as other women discussed grocery shopping.
But the man beside me had stopped smiling.
“What do you mean, looking for me?” I whispered.
Vincent glanced toward the ballroom doors.
“Your father was Daniel Hartwell.”
My heart gave a painful little jump.
“My father died when I was seventeen.”
“I know.”
“Then how do you know him?”
Vincent's expression darkened.
“Because he saved my life.”
Before I could ask another question, my mother pulled back the tablecloth.
For one spectacularly humiliating moment, four adults stared at one another.
My mother, Margaret Hartwell, stood with one hand pressed against her chest.
Beside her was an elegant silver-haired woman wearing an emerald necklace worth more than my condominium.
And beneath the table sat Chicago's most feared Mafia boss, holding my hand while the remains of a chicken sandwich rested on a napkin between us.
“Evelyn!” my mother exclaimed.
“Vincent!” the other woman cried.
Vincent looked up calmly.
“Mother.”
I closed my eyes.
There were certain moments in life when pretending to be unconscious seemed like a perfectly reasonable option.
This was one of them.
My mother recovered first.
“What on earth are you doing under there?”
“Hiding,” I answered.
Vincent nodded.
“Same.”
“Together?”
“Apparently.”
The silver-haired woman stared at our joined hands.
Then her entire expression changed.
“Oh,” she whispered.
My mother followed her gaze.
“Oh!”
I immediately tried to pull my hand away.
Vincent tightened his fingers just enough to stop me.
“Evelyn and I were having a private conversation,” he announced.
“A private conversation?” my mother repeated.
“About marriage,” Vincent said.
My head snapped toward him.
He gave me a warning glance.
The kind that said, Trust me.
Unfortunately, trust had never been my greatest talent.
Especially when dealing with terrifying men who apparently knew my dead father.
“Marriage?” Vincent's mother repeated.
A smile spread across her face.
Vincent rose first, moving the tablecloth aside.
Standing, he was even more intimidating than he had been sitting.
He must have been six feet four, with shoulders broad enough to block the doorway and forearms covered in dark tattoos.
His black hair was neatly trimmed.
The scar through his eyebrow made his expression look permanently dangerous.
He extended his hand to help me up.
I took it because crawling out from beneath a table in a designer dress was not an activity I had practiced.
The moment I stood, Vincent placed his hand at the small of my back.
“My mother has been attempting to arrange a marriage for me,” he said smoothly. “Margaret has apparently been doing the same to Evelyn.”
Both women nodded enthusiastically.
“So,” Vincent continued, “we've decided to investigate the possibility ourselves.”
I stared at him.
Investigate?
Was marriage a federal crime?
His mother clasped her hands.
“Oh, Vincent!”
My mother looked as if someone had handed her the winning lottery ticket.
“This is wonderful!”
“Nothing has been decided,” Vincent said firmly.
“Of course,” his mother replied.
Her eyes were sparkling.
“Absolutely nothing.”
She looked at my mother.
My mother looked back.
I recognized that look.
It was the same expression my mother wore whenever she found a discounted designer handbag.
Except now the handbag was me.
And the discount was apparently a Mafia boss.
“Evelyn,” my mother whispered, “you never told me you knew Vincent Marino.”
“I didn't.”
Vincent smoothly interrupted.
“We've been talking for some time.”
I turned toward him.
He gave my waist a reassuring squeeze.
“I believe Evelyn would prefer that we keep the details private.”
That was certainly true.
Mostly because I had absolutely no idea what the details were.
His mother stepped forward.
“My goodness. Daniel would have been so pleased.”
The room changed.
Not physically.
Nothing moved.
But the instant she mentioned my father, Vincent's hand went still against my back.
My mother's smile disappeared.
And suddenly I noticed something I'd never paid attention to before.
My mother and Vincent's mother were exchanging a look that had nothing to do with marriage.
It was fear.
“Daniel?” I repeated.
Vincent's mother blinked.
“Yes, darling. Your father was a wonderful man.”
“You knew him?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
My mother immediately reached for my arm.
“Evelyn, perhaps this isn't the place.”
I pulled away.
“Mom, you told me Dad barely knew anyone outside his accounting firm.”
Vincent's mother looked uncomfortable.
“He helped several families.”
“What families?”
Silence.
Vincent finally spoke.
“Mother, I think Evelyn deserves some privacy.”
His mother nodded.
“Yes. Of course.”
Within minutes, both women had been persuaded to return to the gala.
Before leaving, my mother leaned close.
“Evelyn, please don't ruin this.”
I looked at her.
“Ruin what?”
She glanced at Vincent.
Then whispered, “Your future.”
When the door closed, I stepped away from him.
“Start talking.”
Vincent sighed.
“I was hoping we'd get at least five minutes before that conversation.”
“You told my mother we're considering marriage.”
“I told her we're investigating the possibility.”
“That's worse!”
“Why?”
“It makes us sound like we're applying for a construction permit!”
His mouth twitched.
I pointed at him.
“Don't smile.”
He stopped.
Mostly.
“Who are you really?” I demanded.
“Vincent Marino.”
“I know your name.”
“Then we're making progress.”
“Vincent!”
He raised both hands.
“Fair enough.”
Then his expression became serious.
“Your father worked with my family twenty years ago.”
“Doing what?”
“He handled financial records for several businesses.”
My stomach tightened.
“Businesses connected to organized crime?”
“Yes.”
I took a step backward.
My father had been a quiet man who coached my softball team, burned pancakes every Sunday morning, and cried during Christmas movies.
He had worn sweater vests.
He collected antique fountain pens.
He was not the sort of man who worked for the Mafia.
“That isn't possible.”
Vincent said nothing.
“My father was an accountant.”
“He was a very good accountant.”
“And you're telling me he worked for criminals?”
“Yes.”
I looked toward the door.
Suddenly, the room seemed too small.
“Did he know what he was doing?”
Vincent hesitated.
That hesitation frightened me more than anything else.
“He discovered something,” Vincent finally said. “Something he wasn't supposed to discover.”
“What?”
“Financial transfers connecting my father's organization to people who were stealing money from families under our protection.”
I stared at him.
“Under your protection?”
“Chicago wasn't always divided the way it is now.”
“Please don't turn this into a Mafia history lesson.”
“Then I'll keep it simple. Your father found evidence that someone inside my father's organization was financing a rival group.”
“And?”
“He brought it to my father.”
“What happened?”
Vincent's jaw tightened.
“Three weeks later, your father died.”
My knees nearly gave out.
I caught the edge of the table.
“No.”
“Evelyn—”
“No. My father died in a car accident.”
“That's what the police report said.”
I felt cold.
“Are you telling me he was murdered?”
Vincent looked directly into my eyes.
“I'm telling you there are questions about his death that were never answered.”
For seventeen years, I had believed my father's car skidded off a rain-soaked highway.
The police said he lost control.
My mother said it happened instantly.
I had been seventeen, angry at the universe, and desperate to believe he hadn't suffered.
Now this stranger was tearing open a wound I'd spent half my life trying to close.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because three days ago, someone broke into a storage facility that once belonged to your father.”
My mouth went dry.
“What storage facility?”
“One you inherited without knowing it.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Your father placed several possessions in a private storage unit under a corporate name. It was paid through a trust. The payments stopped last month.”
“Why?”
“The trustee died.”
“And someone broke in?”
“Yes.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
I frowned.
Vincent reached into his jacket.
Every instinct in my body screamed that a man like him reaching into his jacket was probably bad news.
Instead, he removed a folded photograph.
He handed it to me.
It showed an old storage locker.
The metal door had been forced open.
Inside were several empty shelves, a broken wooden chair, and a small cardboard box.
On the wall, someone had written seven words in red paint.
I read them twice.
Then a third time.
WHERE IS THE GIRL WITH THE KEY?
My blood turned to ice.
“Girl?” I whispered.
Vincent nodded.
“You.”
I looked up.
“I don't have a key.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I'm sure!”
He studied me.
“Your father never gave you anything before he died?”
I opened my mouth.
Then stopped.
A memory surfaced.
My father sitting beside me on my seventeenth birthday.
A small velvet box in his hands.
Inside had been a delicate gold necklace.
A tiny heart-shaped pendant.
He'd fastened it around my neck.
Then he'd said something strange.
If you ever feel lost, Evie, remember that some doors only open when you stop being afraid.
I'd thought it was another one of his philosophical sayings.
Two months later, he was dead.
My hand moved instinctively toward my collarbone.
I wasn't wearing the necklace.
I hadn't worn it in years.
Vincent noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Evelyn.”
“I said nothing.”
He stepped closer.
“I don't need you to trust me immediately.”
“Good.”
“But someone believes your father left you something important.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
“And why should I believe you aren't that someone?”
For the first time, he looked genuinely wounded.
It lasted only a second.
Then his face hardened.
“Because if I wanted to take something from you, I wouldn't be standing here asking questions.”
“That isn't reassuring.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
We stared at one another.
Then he lowered his voice.
“Your father once saved a thirteen-year-old boy who was bleeding to death behind a warehouse. He drove that boy to a hospital, lied about where he'd found him, and stayed until the doctors said he would survive.”
I swallowed.
“That boy was you?”
Vincent nodded.
“My father had enemies. Someone tried to use me to reach him. Daniel found me before they could finish the job.”
The room blurred.
Vincent continued.
“He came to see me every week while I recovered. He brought books, terrible jokes, and sandwiches from a deli on West Madison.”
I looked at the abandoned chicken sandwich.
My chest tightened.
“He always ordered chicken?”
“Every Tuesday.”
I pressed my fingers against my lips.
Vincent's voice softened.
“He told me that being born into a violent family didn't mean I had to become a violent man.”
I looked at the tattoos on his arms.
Then at the scar across his eyebrow.
“Did you listen?”
“Not enough.”
The honesty surprised me.
Vincent looked toward the photograph.
“Your father gave me a chance to live. I owe him more than I can repay.”
“And you think protecting me pays that debt?”
“I think finding out what happened to him is a start.”
I wanted to believe him.
That was what frightened me.
Because I had only known him for thirty minutes.
And somehow, a man who could terrify half of Chicago had already made me feel safer than anyone else in that hotel.
Then my phone rang.
My mother's name appeared on the screen.
I nearly ignored it.
But something made me answer.
“Mom?”
Her voice was shaking.
“Evelyn, where are you?”
“Still in the banquet room.”
“Is Vincent with you?”
“Yes.”
“Listen carefully. Don't leave his side.”
I looked at Vincent.
He straightened.
“Mom, what's happening?”
A man's voice sounded in the background.
Then I heard something crash.
My mother gasped.
“Evelyn, I need to tell you something about your father.”
My heart hammered.
“What?”
She began crying.
“Daniel didn't die in that accident.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Mom?”
“I should have told you years ago.”
“Mom, what are you saying?”
Then a different voice came through the phone.
A man's voice.
Cold.
Unfamiliar.
“Good evening, Evelyn Hartwell.”
Vincent took one look at my face and reached for his own phone.
The stranger continued.
“Your mother is going to be perfectly fine.”
May you like
My fingers went numb.
“As long as you bring us the necklace.”
