Chapter Two
Five months later
Rhia put one foot in front of the other knowing in her heart she should turn on her heel and run the other way.
Away from them.
She wished the nightmare she’d lived for the past five months would end. That she would wake up and everything would be back the way it was. No mafia kings. No murder. No chaos. It’s all her life churned out now.
She shook her head, and tipped her eyes to the pavement, ducking around one filled book shelf after another weaving her way to the exit.
She never wished for her old accounting job more. Plain books and numbers. At least with them, she knew what to expect. Numbers didn’t lie, cheat, kill or want to fuck you.
Most importantly, her father would be alive and she wouldn’t be hunting a killer.
But as she stepped from the cool enclosure of Chicago’s library into the hellish summer heat with newfound information slipped between her breasts, the first rung of the ladder out of hell appeared. All she had to do was put one foot up and then another.
The information had been hard to come by and cost her a few favors in return. Ones she promised to pay. She could only hope it would be worth it in the end.
Perspiration gathered on her brow and left a wet trail along the slope of her breasts. The sun dipped below the city’s skyline, leaving behind a blanket of heat to smother the cement jungle.
Humidity clung to the ends of her hair as waves of heat shimmered from the slabs of sunbaked sidewalk. Each step harder than the last and the heat did its best to slow her steady strides and melt away her resolve.
She pulled dark masses of curls off her neck and clipped them high upon her head before she stepped off the curb among tens of other pedestrians out enjoying an early evening stroll along Old Town’s lesser-known streets. One patio restaurant after another melded into the next as the sidewalks flared to accommodate large terraces.
The late afternoon quickly faded to twilight as the sun set behind the tall peaked buildings and with each block the buildings aged by a decade, sometimes a century. From cement to hand-chiseled stone.
Patrons poured into the vast sidewalks turning the street into an extension of the party, carrying with them a curious mixture of lust and sin. The gray cement broken up with shards of bright light and neon signs from the restaurants and bars.
Although she couldn’t compare Chicago in the dead of summer as anything enjoyable, the locals seemed to thrive in the sweltering heat. And so did killers, she reminded herself.
And by locals, she meant the Volkov family and everyone who fell under their protection. This was their turf; hard-won with enough blood to make the most hardened of criminals flinch with fear. And they did. No one went against the Volkov family. Not and keep their heart in their chests.
She caught hints of leather gun holsters tucked beneath jackets and black-inked spiders peeking out from beneath low-cut collars denoting their position as an active criminal.
She wiped at the droplets of sweat dampening her brow and neck making sure to keep her gaze flowing and never catching the eye of one single person.
Horns blared from the bustling street and she considered one of the many taxis. Given the time of the evening, though, she’d likely make it the remaining seven blocks on foot before the traffic cleared.
Clinking glasses and laughter mingled with the delicious smells of fresh basil on tomatoes and garlic to whip a grumble of hunger from her. She shoved it down and picked up her pace. A deep belly laugh caught her off guard and pulled her attention around to a man sitting with what she assumed were his children and wife. Or mistress. Hard to tell. Or she’d turned jaded in the last several months. Which was entirely possible.
Either way, the sound of the man’s laughter came so similarly to her father's, her step faltered.
Until his eyes met hers and the lethal power of death stared back at her sending shivers up her spine.
Like every other man who made up the Volkov criminal empire. Cold. Ruthless. Loud, dominant and so cock-sure of themselves she could taste the testosterone with every inhalation. The women who loved them were compliant and submissive.
She’d learned by proxy these men were not anyone she wanted to tango with. On her second night as a hostess for Haven, she’d witnessed a very pissed off and very aroused man pull out of the submissive he was taking in the middle of a room, pick up his gun and shoot another.
Why? Who the hell knew and she didn’t wait around to ask questions. An hour later the body was gone and everything went back to normal. Except her frayed nerves. She almost quit that night and slinked back to her home.
Fucking Russian mobsters. She would never understand them, but staying ignorant was not an option. After the bullet-to-the-head incident, she’d quickly educated herself on the various crime families prominent in this part of the world, and for good reason.
She twisted her hand around the strap of her bag and kept her head down when a couple of men called to her. Their voices were low and they looked to be new at their job. Two older men came up behind them and smacked their heads saying something in a rush of Russian. What they said, she didn’t know. But it was obvious the older men recognized her from the club. They gave her a nod and she picked up the pace. A block away she finally took a steadying breath. None of these men could touch her. Not when she fell under their protection.
Only they held the power to sway her from the path she chose five months ago or end her life.
She needed to remember that.