Chapter 2 - The Interrogation of Hannah Brooks
The digital clock on the sleek bedside table of the penthouse guest suite glowed 3:14 a.m.
Hannah wasn’t sleeping. She was sitting cross-legged on the massive king-sized bed, clutching a porcelain mug of chamomile tea that one of Dante’s armed guards—a terrifying man named Marcus who possessed the personality of a brick wall—had delivered twenty minutes ago with terrifying politeness.
The door clicked open. Dante Vance walked in, loosening his collar further, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint scars that hinted at a violent past. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp.
"Drink your tea," Dante said, pulling up a sleek velvet chair and sitting backward on it, resting his arms on the backrest.
"I don't want tea. I want my life back," Hannah said, glaring at him over the rim of the mug. "You can't just keep me here. It's kidnapping! Which, by the way, you already committed, but holding me *hostage* after realizing your mistake is a whole new level of felonious enthusiasm."
"Technically, you're a guest," Dante corrected mildly.
"I am wearing a bathrobe that costs more than my Honda Civic, and there are two armed men outside my door whose job description clearly includes 'disposing of inconvenient bookkeepers.' I am a hostage, Mr. Vance."
Dante didn't argue. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. "Let's talk about Arthur, your boss."
Hannah stiffened. "What about him?"
"We checked his office twenty minutes ago. The lights were off. The door was unlocked. Arthur was slumped over his desk with a silencer-equipped bullet through his skull."
The mug slipped from Hannah's fingers, shattering against the thick Persian rug. Hot tea splashed across her bare feet, but she didn't feel it. The air rushed out of her lungs as if she’d been punched in the stomach.
"Arthur... dead?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "No. No, I just saw him at five o'clock. He gave me the red umbrella. He told me to drop the files off..."
"Arthur wasn't just a mild-mannered accountant, Hannah," Dante said gently—and for the first time, there was a strange, haunting softness in his tone. "He was my primary auditor. For three years, he’s been feeding my organization inside intelligence on Victor Kearney’s financial operations. Kearney found out. That’s why Arthur sent those files out tonight. He knew they were coming for him."
Tears pricked Hannah’s eyes, hot and fast. She wasn't a hero. She was a woman who balanced ledgers and worried about her rent. Arthur had been kind to her, sharing stale biscotti on Tuesday mornings and teaching her advanced depreciation methods.
"They killed him," she choked out, her hands trembling as she buried her face in them. "And because I took the wrong folder... because I was carrying that umbrella... they think I have what Arthur knew. They're coming for me, too."
"They are," Dante agreed ruthlessly, stripping away any false comfort. "Victor Kearney’s cleanup crew is already tearing through Chicago looking for the woman in the red umbrella. The moment you stepped out of that townhouse, your face was captured on a dozen private security cameras. Within the hour, Kearney’s men will trace your license plate, your apartment, your cat."
Hannah snapped her head up, panic surging into sheer, unadulterated terror. "Pickles! My cat! They'll go to my apartment!"
"Evan is already there," Dante said calmly. "He's securing your apartment and bringing your cat here."
Hannah stared at him, blinking through her tears. "You're... you're rescuing my cat?"
"I'm protecting our collateral," Dante corrected, though a faint smirk touched his lips. "If Kearney’s men find an empty apartment with a bowl of half-eaten salmon kibble, they'll know someone tipped you off. Your cat is safer here."
"My cat is coming to a mafia penthouse," Hannah muttered, falling back against the pillows in disbelief. "My life has officially jumped the shark."
Dante stood up, walking toward the door. He paused with his hand on the brass knob, glancing back at her over his shoulder.
May you like
"Get some sleep, Hannah. Tomorrow, we figure out how to keep you alive. Because right now, you are the only person in Chicago who knows where Victor Kearney buried four hundred million dollars in ill-gotten cash. And Kearney will burn this entire city to the ground to keep you quiet."
***
