Chapter 1 - The Measuring Tape That Snapped
The measuring tape snapped before Caroline Jones understood that Dante Baker was jealous.
One second, she was standing in front of Chicago’s most feared crime boss, measuring the width of his shoulders for a charcoal suit.
The next, his hand had closed around the yellow tape hanging between them.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.
Caroline should have lied.
Instead, she looked into his flat, dark eyes and said two words.
“Not yet.”
The fiberglass tape broke in his fist with a sound like a tiny gunshot.
Dante stared at the two pieces in his hand.
Then he looked at Caroline as if those two careless words had just changed both their lives.
Three days later, another man took her to dinner.
And Dante found out.
The brass chime above the door of Jones Custom Tailoring had been installed by Caroline’s grandfather in 1974.
He’d told her it made the place sound expensive.
“You don’t want customers hearing a hardware-store bell when they’re about to spend two thousand dollars on a jacket,” he used to say.
Caroline had been fourteen when he taught her to sew a button correctly, sixteen when he taught her how to cut a lapel, and twenty-three when she buried him and inherited a business with two months of unpaid property taxes and a father who had already borrowed against nearly everything that wasn’t nailed down.
Five years later, the debts were gone.
The shop was hers.
And Caroline trusted thread more than people.
Thread behaved predictably.
People didn’t.
That rainy Monday night, she was gathering pins from the hardwood floor when the chime sounded.
Then the deadbolt clicked behind whoever had entered.
Caroline stopped.
Three men.
Two remained near the frosted windows.
The third walked toward the center fitting mirror.
Dante Baker removed his wet charcoal overcoat.
One of the men caught it before it touched the floor.
Caroline had seen powerful businessmen before. Judges. Developers. Lawyers who billed more in an hour than she sometimes made in a week.
Dante was different.
He didn’t behave as if he owned the room.
He behaved as if ownership was irrelevant because nobody in the room would challenge him anyway.
He was thirty-eight, broad through the chest, dark-haired, and built like the expensive shirts he wore had personally offended him by being too small.
A pale scar disappeared beneath his collar.
There were other scars on his hands.
Caroline deliberately looked at none of them.
“You’re late,” she said.
“Traffic.”
“Sure.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
That was as close to a smile as Dante Baker seemed to get.
“Coat off.”
He obeyed.
Caroline pulled a fresh tape from her apron.
For the next ten minutes, Dante was not a criminal boss whose name made restaurant owners lower their voices.
He was measurements.
Chest.
Shoulders.
Sleeve.
Waist.
Structure.
“Forty-four,” she said.
“Forty-six.”
“Forty-four.”
“I need room to move.”
“If you want room to move, buy a tracksuit.”
His eyes found hers in the mirror.
“You always talk to clients like this?”
“Only the ones who argue with mathematics.”
She stepped behind him and measured his shoulders.
“You work too late,” he said.
“Rent is high.”
“I could fix that.”
“My landlord accepts checks.”
“I wasn’t talking about a check.”
“I know.”
She walked around him.
“Right arm.”
He lifted it.
She measured.
“Left.”
He obeyed again.
Something about a dangerous man silently following a tailor’s instructions would have been funny if Caroline had allowed herself to find Dante amusing.
She didn’t.
Men like him were storms.
You didn’t admire the lightning because the sky happened to look beautiful.
You closed the windows.
She knelt briefly to check the trouser break, rose, and reached for the tape around his chest.
That was when his hand moved.
Fast.
He caught the loose end.
The tape stretched between them.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
Caroline stared.
Behind Dante, his two men became very interested in the front windows.
“That is not one of the measurements.”
“Answer me.”
His voice wasn’t loud.
That made it worse.
Caroline could feel the tension in his hand through the tape.
The intelligent answer was yes.
Yes, actually, she was dating a six-foot-four former linebacker who collected axes.
But Dante Baker didn’t look like a man who asked questions without checking the answer first.
So she told the truth.
“Not yet.”
His expression changed.
Barely.
A tightening at the jaw.
A darkening behind the eyes.
But Caroline saw it.
Jealousy.
Not romantic jealousy.
Not the cute irritation of some boyfriend discovering an old college crush had texted.
This was something primitive.
Possessive.
Dante looked down at the yellow tape.
His fist closed.
Crack.
Caroline flinched.
He opened his hand.
Two broken pieces fell onto the hardwood.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
“Make it forty-six,” Dante said.
“You’ll ruin the drape.”
“I’ll risk it.”
He collected his coat and walked into the rain.
The chime sounded behind him.
Caroline stood beneath the fluorescent lights staring at the broken measuring tape.
Three days later, she agreed to dinner with Greg Holloway.
Greg was an accountant.
He wore a navy suit made mostly of polyester, talked for eleven consecutive minutes about fantasy football, and asked Caroline whether she knew any tricks for getting red wine out of carpet.
He was magnificently normal.
Caroline needed magnificent normal.
They were halfway through dinner at a West Loop restaurant when a nervous waiter appeared carrying a bottle of Barolo.
Greg looked at the label.
“We didn’t order this.”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“By who?”
The waiter glanced toward Caroline.
“A friend of the lady.”
Caroline’s stomach dropped.
Greg smiled.
“Oh. Secret admirer?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Caroline pushed the bottle away.
“Take it back.”
The waiter swallowed.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to.”
“Then leave it.”
Greg twisted around, scanning the restaurant.
Caroline didn’t.
Dante wasn’t there.
She knew that instinctively.
Dante didn’t need to sit at another table.
A man like Dante could ruin your evening from three neighborhoods away.
The restaurant manager approached less than a minute later.
“Mr. Holloway, your dinner has been paid for.”
Greg blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“The entire check.”
“By whom?”
The manager hesitated.
Caroline closed her eyes.
“Don’t.”
Greg looked at her.
“Don’t what?”
“Ask.”
Of course he asked.
“Who paid it?”
The manager lowered his voice.
“Mr. Baker.”
Greg’s smile disappeared.
For a few seconds, there was nothing but silverware, quiet music, and the sound of Caroline’s evening dying a slow and humiliating death.
“Dante Baker?” Greg whispered.
Caroline rubbed her forehead.
“Yes.”
“The Dante Baker?”
“There really shouldn’t be enough Dante Bakers for that sentence.”
Greg stared at her.
“How do you know him?”
“He’s a client.”
Greg laughed once.
Nobody joined him.
“A client.”
“Yes.”
“Caroline, the guy has been investigated for racketeering, extortion, money laundering—”
“And apparently wine selection.”
Greg looked at the bottle.
Then back at Caroline.
“I think I should go.”
She couldn’t blame him.
Five minutes later, Greg had put cash on the table despite the paid bill, apologized in a voice that sounded more frightened than disappointed, and disappeared through the front door.
Caroline stayed seated.
She stared at the untouched wine.
Then her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
She opened the message.
YOUR ACCOUNTANT TALKS TOO MUCH.
Caroline’s anger became cold.
She typed immediately.
YOU BROKE MY TAPE, RUINED MY DATE, AND NOW YOU’RE TEXTING ME?
The reply came almost instantly.
THE TAPE WAS AN ACCIDENT.
Caroline stared at the screen.
She typed:
LIAR.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
THE DINNER WASN’T.
Caroline grabbed her coat.
Outside, Chicago rain turned the sidewalks black and glossy.
She marched half a block before a black sedan pulled smoothly to the curb.
The rear window lowered.
Dante sat inside.
Of course he did.
Caroline yanked the rear door open before the driver could move.
“You have exactly ten seconds.”
Dante looked almost impressed.
“Get in.”
“No.”
“It’s raining.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re angry.”
“Excellent criminal instincts.”
The man driving coughed into his fist.
Dante’s eyes flicked toward him.
The driver became very interested in traffic.
Caroline leaned down.
“You do not get to interfere with my life because I measured you for a suit.”
“I know.”
“You do not get to scare men away from me.”
“I know.”
“You especially do not get to buy my date dinner like you’re congratulating him on surviving me.”
“I wasn’t congratulating him.”
“What were you doing?”
Dante paused.
The rain dotted his dark hair where the lowered window exposed him.
“Checking who he worked for.”
That cooled her anger by half a degree.
“What?”
“Greg Holloway is an accountant at Marston Development.”
“Yes.”
“Marston is controlled through three holding companies by Vincent Rourke.”
Caroline knew the name.
Everybody in Chicago did.
Rourke was a real estate developer when newspapers wrote about him.
He was something else when people whispered.
“I don’t care who owns Greg’s company.”
“You should.”
“Why?”
Dante’s expression changed.
The jealousy was still there.
But there was something underneath it now.
Something sharper.
“Because yesterday one of Rourke’s men offered twenty thousand dollars for the floor plan of your shop.”
The noise of the city seemed to pull away.
Caroline stared at him.
“What?”
“Get in.”
This time, she did.
The locks clicked.
Caroline didn’t like the sound.
“What does Rourke want with my shop?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I wasn’t trying to reassure you.”
“Then why are you here?”
Dante looked out through the rain-streaked windshield.
“Because I found your name in the pocket of a dead man this morning.”
Caroline stopped breathing.
Beside the typed address of Jones Custom Tailoring had been one handwritten sentence.
ASK ABOUT ARTHUR JONES.
Her grandfather.
Caroline’s fingers tightened around her purse.
“My grandfather has been dead for five years.”
“I know.”
“What was the dead man’s name?”
“Peter Dempsey.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“He worked for Rourke.”
“And you think Greg—”
“I don’t know what Greg knows.”
“You had him followed.”
“Yes.”
“You had me followed?”
Dante didn’t answer fast enough.
Caroline stared.
“You did.”
“For three days.”
“You psychotic—”
“Caroline.”
“No. You don’t get to say my name like that makes any of this normal.”
“It isn’t normal.”
“Then stop acting like it is.”
His jaw tightened.
“I can stop watching you.”
“Good.”
“And when Rourke’s people come through your back door at two in the morning, perhaps you can explain boundaries to them.”
She hated him for making sense.
She hated herself more for being afraid.
“Take me home.”
“I’m taking you to your shop first.”
“No.”
“Somebody entered it forty minutes ago.”
Caroline went still.
The sedan was already turning toward West Grand Avenue.
When they arrived, the front door was locked.
The brass chime remained silent until Caroline used her key.
Inside, nothing looked obviously disturbed.
The cash drawer remained closed.
Three finished jackets still hung behind the counter.
Her laptop sat on the desk.
Then she saw the cutting table.
One drawer had been pulled out.
Not the new drawer.
The old one.
The shallow oak drawer her grandfather had used for patterns, chalk and handwritten client measurements.
Its contents covered the floor.
Dante entered behind her.
His two men spread through the shop.
Caroline crouched.
“They didn’t take the computer.”
“No.”
“They didn’t take cash.”
“No.”
“They were looking for something.”
“Yes.”
One of Dante’s men called from the back room.
“Clear.”
The other checked the basement.
“No one.”
Caroline touched one of her grandfather’s old pattern cards.
ARTHUR JONES CUSTOM TAILORING was printed across the top.
Beneath it were measurements for a man who had died before Caroline finished high school.
Dante crouched beside her.
“Did your grandfather keep records on every client?”
“Yes.”
“How far back?”
“Forty years.”
“Where?”
“Most are downstairs.”
Dante’s expression darkened.
Caroline noticed.
“You know something.”
“Not enough.”
“Then tell me the part you do know.”
He picked up one old card.
The name written across it was MICHAEL BAKER.
Dante’s father.
Caroline stared.
Dante’s thumb passed over the handwriting.
“My father bought every suit he wore from your grandfather.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
“You walked into my shop knowing our families were connected?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because five years ago, three weeks before Arthur Jones died, he called me.”
Caroline’s skin went cold.
“What did he say?”
“That if anyone ever started asking about his old books, I was supposed to make sure you stayed alive.”
She stood too quickly.
The room tilted.
“That makes no sense.”
“I agree.”
“My grandfather was a tailor.”
“So was the man who stitched messages into military uniforms during the war.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying ordinary professions are excellent hiding places.”
Caroline looked around the shop she had known since childhood.
The mirrors.
The bolts of wool.
The walnut cabinets.
The old Singer machine her grandfather refused to throw away.
Suddenly everything looked capable of secrets.
Dante’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
His expression hardened.
“What?”
He listened.
Then his eyes rose to Caroline.
“How bad?”
Another pause.
“Keep him there.”
He ended the call.
“Who was that?”
“My security chief.”
“And?”
Dante stood.
“Greg Holloway didn’t go home.”
Caroline’s stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“Two men took him from the parking garage beneath his apartment.”
She stared at Dante.
“You said he might work for Rourke.”
“I said his company did.”
“You think they took him because of me?”
“Yes.”
Caroline felt sick.
Dante stepped closer.
“This is why I paid for dinner.”
“To humiliate me?”
“To make everyone watching understand he was under my attention.”
“That worked brilliantly.”
His face tightened.
“I didn’t know they’d move this fast.”
It was the first thing Dante had said that sounded almost like regret.
Caroline looked down at the broken drawer.
At her grandfather’s handwriting.
At Michael Baker’s name.
Then at Dante.
“What happens now?”
He held her gaze.
“Now you stop pretending this is about a suit.”
Outside, a car rolled slowly past the shop.
Dante’s hand moved beneath his jacket.
The vehicle kept going.
Caroline realized that somewhere between the broken measuring tape and the ruined dinner, the walls of her ordinary life had moved.
And she was no longer standing safely inside them.
She looked at Dante Baker.
For the first time, she understood the expression he had worn when she’d said not yet.
It hadn’t been only jealousy.
It had been fear.
May you like
Not fear that Caroline might choose another man.
Fear that someone else might reach her first.
