Chapter 1 - The Red Dress in Lincoln Park
The whispering in the grand ballroom of the Cross estate died down in concentric circles, beginning at the arched entrance where I stood and rippling outward toward the marble terrace overlooking the Chicago skyline.
The silk of the scarlet backless gown brushed against my heels like liquid fire. It was cut low across the shoulder blades, fitted along the waist with razor-sharp tailoring, and split to the mid-thigh—a masterpiece of Italian design that Dominic had ordered me to burn six months ago when a society photographer had lingered too long on my silhouette at an opera benefit.
I had kept it hidden in the back of my wardrobe behind the modest wool coats, waiting for the day I no longer gave a damn about the rules of the Russo family.
Adrian Cross stood forty feet away beneath a massive tiered chandelier of smoked black crystal. At thirty-five, the undisputed king of Chicago’s north-side docks and private financial syndicates carried the lethal, relaxed grace of an apex predator who had never lost a territory war. His tailored black velvet tuxedo framed broad shoulders, his dark hair was swept cleanly back from high cheekbones, and an unlit cigar rested between his long, calloused fingers.
When his cold slate-gray eyes found mine, his hand paused.
Slowly, deliberately, Adrian lifted his crystal tumbler of amber bourbon toward me in a silent, mocking salute.
I did not look down. I did not pull at the fabric of my dress. I walked down the sweeping twin marble staircase with measured, unhurried steps, the gold stilettos clicking rhythmically against the stone like the chambering of a round.
"Mrs. Russo," a smooth, gravelly voice purred as I reached the parquet floor.
Adrian had cleared the distance between us without a sound, moving through his own private army of armed bodyguards and corrupt aldermen like a ghost through fog. He stopped three feet away, his gaze sweeping over the crimson silk, the bare curve of my collarbone, and the cold, unblinking fire in my dark eyes.
"To what do I owe the honor of the Russo syndicate’s crown jewel gracing my den on a Thursday night?" Adrian asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated against the background chamber music. "Did Dominic give you a curfew pass, or did you finally realize that the man who bought you doesn't know how to keep you?"
"Dominic doesn't give me passes, Adrian," I replied, my voice steady, cool, and devoid of the trembling that had nearly broken me in the study forty minutes ago. "Because Dominic no longer has a say in where I stand."
Adrian’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile that did not reach his predatory eyes. "A dangerous declaration in a room full of men who would trade their right arms to put a bullet through your husband’s chest."
"Then you had better pour me a glass of your best scotch, Mr. Cross," I said, meeting his gaze with absolute defiance. "Because tonight, I am not Dominic Russo’s wife. I am the woman who holds the cryptographic keys to his south-side shipping terminals."
Across the crowded ballroom, the heavy double oak front doors were suddenly blown off their hinges with a concussive, thunderous crash.
BANG.
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The ambient jazz music died in a discordant screech of cello strings.
Standing in the shattered entrance, flanked by eight armed enforcers with suppressed automatic weapons drawn, was Dominic Russo.
