“Your options are limited, Mr. Chen.” I keep my voice level as I speak on the phone. “Either accept the terms as written or find yourself explaining certain indiscretions to your board of directors.”
A pause. Heavy breathing on the other end. “You’re a bastard, Harding.”
“I’m effective. You have until midnight.” I end the call, satisfaction coursing through me as I add another mark to my ledger of victories.
The Mont Blanc pen clicks against my desk as I make notations in the margin of his contract. Red ink bleeds intothe paper, marking my requirements. Each correction and each amendment represents another thread in my web of influence. The soft house music floating through hidden speakers provides a steady rhythm to my movements.
My office reflects the order I demand in my life. Files arranged by priority edge my desk. Three monitors display surveillance feeds and communications with my team, windows into the lives of those who’ve sought my services. I’ve spent eight years perfecting this space, this fortress where nothing moves without my knowledge or consent.
The leather chair creaks as I lean back, savoring the moment. Chen will cave—they always do. My reputation ensures it. I’m the man they come to when they need problems to disappear.
My phone vibrates against the polished mahogany, the screen illuminating with an unfamiliar number. I pause, tension coiling in my muscles. My private line is sacred, known only to a select few—each one carefully vetted, each one owing me their loyalty, all with their names or code names.
This is an unknown number. An unknown number means an unknown variable. And unknown variables have no place to be.
I stare at the unknown number, my finger hovering over the screen. Years of careful precautions have taught me to recognize disruptions before they occur. Something in my gut tightens—a warning, perhaps, or intuition born from countless deals gone sideways.
I answer. The silence stretches for two breaths.
“Remy.”
Her voice hits me like a physical blow. Eight years dissolve in an instant, and I’m back in that moment when everything I’d built started to crack. Liv Consoli. The name I’d carved out of my life with surgical precision, only to have it slice through my defenses with a single word.
I move to the window, each step measured and controlled. Chicago’s lights blur beneath me, but I focus on my reflection—composed, distant, the mask I’ve perfected. “Ms. Consoli.” Ice coats each syllable. “Eight years of silence, and now you’ve managed to acquire my private number. I see your investigative skills haven’t dulled.”
My free hand clenches at my side. Eight years of rebuilding, of reinforcing every wall, every defense. Eight years of ensuring no one could ever again find the cracks she’d exposed. The memory of newsprint headlines flashes through my mind: careers destroyed, reputations shattered, secrets exposed. Her secrets. My clients and reputation.
“Always so formal,” she says, that familiar mix of steel and silk in her voice. “Some things never change.”
“And some things should stay buried.” I watch my reflection’s jaw tighten. “What do you want?”
A pause. The sound of traffic in the background tells me she’s moving. Running, probably.
“I need…” She hesitates, and I can picture her expression—that stubborn set to her jaw, the flash in her eyes when she’s cornered. “I need your help.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implications. Liv Consoli asking for help means she’s desperate. Desperate means vulnerable. Vulnerable means leverage. My mind already calculates angles, possibilities, and advantages—a habit I’ve honed to perfection.
“Interesting.” I turn from the window, pacing the length of my desk. “The woman who once declared me ‘a cancer on Chicago’s soul’ now seeks my assistance. The irony is… striking.”
I let her words settle in the air, each second of silence another small victory. Through the window’s reflection, I catch a glimpse of my own smirk—practiced, controlled, the same expression Iwore eight years ago when she first walked into my office. Before everything imploded.
“I remember the last time you needed something from me.” My voice remains steady, but memories flash unbidden. Her lipstick on a wine glass, the rustle of sheets, the morning I woke to find my empire crumbling. “You played your part beautifully then. The naive journalist, so eager to understand my world.”
“This isn’t about the past, Remy.” Her breath catches—she’s still moving, still running from whatever’s spooked her.
I trace a finger along the edge of my desk.
“You’re being followed,” I state, savoring the words like aged whiskey. “And now you turn to me for protection.” I pull up her file—photographs, reports, every piece of information I’ve gathered since she vanished all those years ago. “Tell me, Eve, what makes you think I won’t finish what your pursuers started?”
“Because you’re curious.” Her voice steadies, and I hate how well she still reads me. “Because whatever drove me to call you is bigger than our history. And if none of those reasons are enough, you would love to be the first to exact vengeance on me.”
My hand tightens on the phone. She’s right, damn her. The curiosity burns beneath my skin, warring with eight years of carefully cultivated hatred. I’ve imagined this moment countless times—her return, her vulnerability, my revenge. But the reality tastes different from the fantasy.
“You destroyed everything I built,” I say softly, dangerously. “Carved up my reputation like a surgeon with a scalpel. And now you expect me to what? Play protector? Be your white knight?”
Her laugh is brittle, desperate. “We both know you’re no knight, Remy. But you are the devil I know.”
“The devil you know,” I repeat, letting the words roll off my tongue. “How poetic. And exactly the kind of manipulation you excelled at.” I move to my bar cart, ice clinking against crystal asI pour myself two fingers of scotch. “Though I must admit, your desperation intrigues me.”
