Chapter 1 - THE BRIDE WHO RAN INTO THE DARK
She Escaped Her Wedding And Ran Into A Mafia Club—Then the Boss Saw the Ring and Locked the Doors The bridal suite at St. Jude's Cathedral had a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and Genevieve Hayes stood in front of it at 0:23 with her hands pressed flat against her stomach like she was holding something in. She looked like a porcelain doll wrapped in layers of imported French lace and ivory silk. That was the phrase the Chicago Tribune society page had used that morning, and it was the phrase Harper had repeated twice on the drive over, delighted. Eight seconds. That was how long she let herself look. You look absolutely breathless, Jen. Harper appeared behind her in the glass, already weeping, already reaching for the veil. Preston is going to faint when he sees you at the end of the aisle. Thank you, Harper. The smile came up on her face the way it always did now — automatic, well-fitted, and not reaching her eyes. She loved Preston. She really did. She had said it out loud enough times that she believed it the way you believe a thing you have said in front of witnesses. But the last few weeks had been a whirlwind of aggressive lawyers and prenuptial agreements with clauses that ran to nine pages, and a coldness from Preston she hadn't seen before — a kind of polite absence, like a man waiting out a long appointment. She had chalked it up to wedding jitters. Everyone chalked everything up to wedding jitters. It was the great Chicago solvent. With ten minutes until the organist began, she realized she had forgotten to give Preston his gift. It was in her bag in the rectory: a vintage Rolex that had belonged to her late father, Thomas Hayes. He had died in a car accident eight months earlier, on a Tuesday, on a stretch of road he had driven four hundred times. He had left her the entire shipping empire and a note in his desk drawer that said you'll know what to do with it. She had not yet known what to do with it. Genevieve gathered the heavy skirts of her dress and slipped out of the bridal suite, ignoring Harper's protests about bad luck. Bad luck, she thought, walking the marble corridor in a dress that weighed as much as a small dog. The rectory was quiet in a way the sanctuary wasn't. The ceremony's sound checked against the walls from two hundred feet away, a distant surf of strings. Her satin heels made almost no sound on the antique Persian runner. The door to the groom's holding room stood slightly ajar. She raised her hand to knock. I don't care how many union reps are complaining. Preston's voice came through the gap, sharp and impatient, a register she had never heard from him. Dad, we finalize the liquidation of Hayes Logistics on Monday. The second the marriage certificate is filed with the county clerk today, I have power of attorney over her assets. Genevieve's hand stayed where it was, raised, six inches from the wood. Liquidation. She and Preston had agreed they would expand her father's company. They had sat in a restaurant on Rush Street and drawn it out on a napkin. He had squeezed her hand and said we build it together, Gen. Keep your voice down, Preston. That was Judge Harrison Witmore — the gravelly, authoritative tone of a man who had spent thirty years being obeyed. This merger is delicate. We cannot have the board of directors getting wind of our asset stripping before the ink is dry. Genevieve trusts you implicitly. Keep playing the grieving fiancé. Preston laughed. She's an idiot, just like her father. Thomas Hayes actually thought he could deny us the port contracts. Look where that got him. It cost us fifty grand to have his brake lines severed, but getting this company for free via a ring and a smile? A pause. Genevieve heard ice move in a glass. Best investment we ever made. The breath went out of her the way it does when you are struck with something heavy: not gradually, but all at once, and then the pain arrives afterward. Her father had not died in a tragic accident. She stood in the hallway of a cathedral, in a dress that had taken four women six weeks to build, and understood with total clarity that the man waiting at the altar to put a ring on her finger had paid to have her father's brakes cut. A wave of nausea went through her hard enough to tilt the floor. Genevieve stumbled backward. Her satin heel caught the edge of the antique rug, and she went down a half step and threw her arm out for balance and knocked against a heavy brass candelabra. It clattered against the wall with a chime that filled the corridor like a struck bell. The voices inside stopped instantly. Who is out there? Judge Whitmore barked. Genevieve did not think. There was no thinking left in her. She kicked off her stilettos. She gathered the massive layers of her gown in both arms. And she ran in the direction she had not come from — away from the sanctuary, away from the five hundred guests, away from the man who had just been described as an investment. Genevieve. Preston's voice came down the corridor behind her, shifting in the space of one syllable from surprise to a fury she had never once heard from him in two years. Stop! She burst through the rectory doors and did not turn toward the sanctuary. She went left, hit the side exit, and threw her whole body against the heavy iron crash bar. The door flew open and spat her out into the muggy, overcast afternoon. There she is! Get her! Preston was shouting to the private security guards stationed at the side entrance. Don't let her leave the grounds! Genevieve ran. Her stocking feet hit the concrete of the sidewalk and the cold went up through her like a wire. The Vera Wang had felt elegant an hour ago. Now it was a fifty-pound cage dragging her down, and it was absorbing the rain that had started coming down out of a sky the color of old nickel. She heard the men behind her — the shouts, and then the heavier, faster thud of boots. She cut through a crowded plaza and dodged a confused tourist and a woman with a stroller. Help, she tried to say, but it came out as a horseragged gasp in a throat that had gone entirely dry. Nobody moved. In a city like Chicago, people minded their own business. Especially when the people doing the chasing were wearing tailored black suits and had earpieces. Rain slicked the pavement and came through the tulle in seconds, plastering silk to her skin. She took a sharp right into a narrow shadowed alleyway off the main avenue and ran along the brick, trying to lose herself in the labyrinth of the industrial district. Behind her, tires screeched. Two black SUVs had cut off the mouth of the alley, and the doors were already opening. Search the dumpsters. She couldn't have gotten far in that dress. Genevieve pressed herself flat against the wet brick and shuffled backward into the shadows, hands feeling along the rough surface, and then something cold and metallic met her fingers. A door. Solid steel, unmarked, with a tiny camera mounted in the brickwork above it and no handle — just a heavy keypad. She slammed her fist against the metal. Please. Please open up. Ten feet away, a flashlight swept over the wet pavement and inched toward her hiding spot. The lock disengaged with a clack. The steel door cracked open one inch. Genevieve did not wait for an invitation.
She threw herself through the opening.
A man's hand caught her elbow before she fell.
"Easy."
The voice was low and completely calm.
The steel door slammed behind her.
Three heavy locks engaged.
Genevieve staggered into a dim corridor smelling of expensive tobacco, polished wood, and something warm from a nearby kitchen.
A security guard stared at her soaked wedding dress.
"What the hell?"
"Please," she gasped. "Don't let them in."
The guard glanced toward a camera mounted above the door.
"Who is chasing you?"
"My fiancé."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's a complicated wedding."
Genevieve grabbed his sleeve.
"He killed my father."
The guard stopped smiling.
A second man appeared at the end of the corridor.
"What's going on?"
"Runaway bride."
"She says her fiancé murdered someone."
The second man's expression changed.
"Bring her upstairs."
Genevieve backed away.
"No. I just need somewhere to hide."
"You picked the wrong door for a simple favor, sweetheart."
Before she could answer, someone spoke from the darkness.
"Let her go."
Both guards straightened.
A tall man descended the narrow staircase.
He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark hair was neatly combed, and a thin scar crossed his left eyebrow.
He was handsome in a severe, unsettling way.
But it was his eyes that made Genevieve freeze.
Cold blue.
Watchful.
The kind of eyes that seemed to notice things before people decided to reveal them.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Genevieve swallowed.
"Genevieve Hayes."
The man's expression changed.
Barely.
But enough.
"Thomas Hayes's daughter?"
She nodded.
He looked at her wedding dress.
"You're supposed to be marrying Preston Witmore."
"Not anymore."
For the first time, something resembling interest crossed his face.
"Why?"
She hesitated.
The man looked toward the security guard.
"Get her a blanket."
Then he turned back.
"You're safe for the moment. Tell me what happened."
Genevieve stared at him.
"Who are you?"
The guard answered before he could.
"That's Roman DeLuca."
Her blood went cold.
Roman DeLuca.
Chicago's most feared mafia boss.
The man Preston had once described as a monster who controlled half the city's underground economy.
Roman noticed her expression.
"Now you recognize me."
Genevieve took another step backward.
Roman's gaze dropped toward her hand.
More precisely, toward the enormous diamond engagement ring.
His entire expression changed.
"Where did you get that?"
She looked down.
"Preston gave it to me."
Roman stepped closer.
"Take it off."
"What?"
"The ring."
Genevieve hesitated.
Roman's voice hardened.
"Now."
With shaking fingers, she pulled it free.
Roman took it carefully.
He turned it toward the light.
Inside the platinum band was a tiny engraving.
A crown.
Three stars.
And two initials.
E.D.
Roman stared.
Then looked toward his security chief.
"Lock every entrance."
The guard blinked.
"Boss?"
"Nobody comes in. Nobody leaves."
Genevieve's heart hammered.
"What is happening?"
Roman looked at her.
For the first time, the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.
"This ring belonged to my sister."
Genevieve stared.
"Your sister?"
Roman nodded.
"Elena DeLuca."
He closed his fingers around the diamond.
"She disappeared eleven years ago."
A distant pounding echoed from the steel door downstairs.
Preston's voice followed.
"Open this door! My fiancée is inside!"
May you like
Roman didn't look away from Genevieve.
"Miss Hayes," he said quietly, "I think your fiancé has been lying to both of us."
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