Chapter 2 - By Morning, She Was Worth $250,000 DeadChelsea read the message three times before her body understood what her eyes were seeing.
Then she dropped the photograph.
Her studio apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
The old refrigerator hummed in the kitchenette. Pipes groaned behind the wall. Somewhere upstairs, a child was crying.
Normal sounds.
Ordinary sounds.
Yet Chelsea could no longer convince herself that the world outside her door was ordinary.
She locked the deadbolt.
Then the chain.
Then dragged a kitchen chair beneath the handle.
Her phone rang.
She nearly screamed.
Unknown number.
Chelsea stared until it stopped.
Ten seconds later, it rang again.
Same number.
On the third call, she answered.
“Hello?”
“Chelsea.”
She recognized Vincent instantly.
“How did you get my number?”
“Are you alone?”
“That is not an answer.”
“Are you alone?”
Something in his voice made her look toward the window.
“Yes.”
“Do not open your door.”
Chelsea’s stomach dropped.
“You know?”
Silence.
Then Vincent said, “My men found copies of the photograph online thirty minutes ago.”
Chelsea looked down at the image on the floor.
“You mean there are more?”
“It was sent to people who take contracts.”
Her mouth went dry.
“What kind of contracts?”
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
Chelsea pressed one hand over her face.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
“I kissed you.”
“I know.”
“I kissed a man. That’s it.”
“I know.”
“And now somebody wants to kill me?”
His silence was worse than any explanation.
Chelsea’s fear turned suddenly into anger.
“This is because of you.”
“Yes.”
The immediate admission stopped her.
Vincent continued.
“And that means I am responsible for keeping you alive.”
“I don’t want your protection.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
“I absolutely have a choice.”
A hard knock sounded at her door.
Chelsea froze.
“Chelsea?” Vincent said.
Another knock.
“Miss Dawson?”
A man’s voice.
“Building maintenance.”
Chelsea backed away.
Vincent’s voice changed instantly.
“Do not answer.”
Her breathing became shallow.
The handle moved.
“Miss Dawson, we’ve got a report of a leak.”
Chelsea whispered, “There’s no leak.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because my people spoke to your landlord.”
The handle moved again.
Then a harder impact struck the door.
Chelsea stumbled backward.
“Vincent.”
“I’m six minutes away.”
“Six minutes?”
Another impact.
The chair shifted.
Chelsea grabbed the only weapon within reach.
A cast-iron skillet.
Vincent heard the noise through the phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Preparing to die with dignity.”
“Chelsea.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You’re not funny.”
“Neither are you.”
The doorframe cracked.
Chelsea ran into the bathroom and locked herself inside.
The apartment door burst open seconds later.
Heavy footsteps entered.
Chelsea clamped a hand over her mouth.
A man walked slowly through the apartment.
She could hear drawers opening.
Furniture moving.
Then silence.
Chelsea stared at the bathroom knob.
It turned.
Once.
Twice.
A voice spoke through the door.
“Chelsea?”
She said nothing.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
She gripped the skillet tighter.
“That’s a very suspicious sentence!”
The man laughed softly.
Then kicked the door.
Wood split.
Chelsea swung the skillet the moment his shoulder came through.
The blow struck his temple.
He staggered.
Chelsea ran.
She made it halfway across the apartment before he grabbed her hair.
Pain exploded across her scalp.
She screamed.
Then the front door filled with men.
Black suits.
Weapons.
Vincent entered behind them.
The attacker released Chelsea and reached inside his coat.
He never got the chance.
Vincent’s bodyguard, Marco DeLuca, slammed him face-first against the wall and twisted his arm behind him.
Chelsea stumbled backward.
Vincent crossed the room quickly.
His side was bandaged beneath his shirt, but he moved as if pain had become irrelevant.
He placed both hands on Chelsea’s shoulders.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
He searched her face.
“Did he touch you?”
“He pulled my hair.”
Vincent looked toward the attacker.
Something terrifying entered his eyes.
Chelsea grabbed his sleeve.
“No.”
Vincent looked down at her.
“Don’t.”
“He came here to kill you.”
“And he failed.”
“That doesn’t absolve him.”
“I didn’t say it did. I’m saying I don’t want to watch you become whatever everyone says you are.”
Vincent went still.
Marco looked away.
Chelsea realized she was standing barefoot in pajamas, holding a skillet, lecturing one of Chicago’s most feared men about morality.
“This is humiliating,” she muttered.
Vincent almost smiled.
“Pack a bag.”
“No.”
“You’re coming with me.”
“No.”
“Chelsea.”
“You don’t get to order me around because people are shooting at me.”
“They are shooting at you because of me.”
“Exactly.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“And they will keep doing it.”
The words were quiet.
That frightened her more.
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I have enemies. More than one.”
“Congratulations.”
His jaw tightened.
“You have ninety seconds.”
“I have work.”
Vincent stared at her.
Chelsea stared back.
“My rent is due Monday.”
“You nearly got murdered in your bathroom.”
“And my landlord will still charge late fees.”
Vincent looked at Marco.
“Pay her rent.”
Chelsea’s mouth fell open.
“No.”
“Six months.”
“No!”
“One year.”
“That is not how negotiations work.”
“It is where I come from.”
“I don’t care where you come from.”
For the first time, Vincent smiled.
Actually smiled.
It transformed him.
Chelsea hated that she noticed.
Then Marco’s phone rang.
His expression changed as he listened.
“Boss.”
Vincent’s smile vanished.
“What?”
Marco looked at Chelsea before speaking.
“We traced the photograph.”
“To whom?”
“It originated from an account connected to the Romano organization.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
Chelsea knew the Romano name too.
Another old Chicago family.
Another name people whispered.
Vincent asked, “Dante?”
Marco shook his head.
“Account belongs to Elena Romano.”
Vincent became unnaturally still.
Chelsea sensed immediately that this meant something.
“Who is Elena?”
He did not answer at first.
Then he looked toward the rain streaking Chelsea’s window.
“My wife’s sister.”
Chelsea blinked.
“Your dead wife’s sister put a price on my head?”
“We don’t know that.”
“Her account did.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vincent’s gaze returned to Chelsea.
There was grief in it.
And something worse.
Fear.
“Because seven years ago, Elena told me she knew who murdered my wife.”
Chelsea forgot the attacker.
Forgot the photograph.
Forgot everything except Vincent’s next words.
“I didn’t believe her.”
“Why?”
“Because she said the murderer was someone inside my own family.”
Vincent’s mansion stood behind iron gates on a wooded estate north of the city.
Chelsea had expected gold statues, fountains, maybe a tiger.
Instead, she found dark brick, old trees, quiet rooms and a house that seemed designed by someone who had stopped enjoying life.
Vincent gave her a guest suite on the second floor.
“No windows facing the road,” Marco explained.
“How comforting.”
Two guards remained outside her door.
Chelsea stared.
“Are they staying there?”
“Yes,” Vincent said.
“I can’t sleep with armed men outside my bedroom.”
“They’re married.”
“That somehow makes this weirder.”
Vincent rubbed his forehead.
“You are exhausting.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“I rescued you.”
“Against my will.”
“That is becoming a philosophical distinction.”
Chelsea folded her arms.
Vincent looked at her for a moment.
Then his gaze softened.
“I am sorry.”
The simple sincerity caught her off guard.
“For what?”
“For bringing this into your life.”
Chelsea looked down.
“You didn’t ask me to kiss you.”
“No.”
“You looked like you needed it.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
Chelsea immediately regretted saying it.
She walked into the guest room.
Before closing the door, she glanced back.
“Vincent?”
“Yes?”
“Who was your wife?”
His eyes lowered.
“Isabella.”
“Did you love her?”
“With everything I had.”
Chelsea nodded.
Then closed the door.
Across town, Elena Romano sat inside a private club staring at the same photograph.
A nervous young man stood opposite her.
“You told them two hundred fifty thousand?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Elena slowly placed the picture on the table.
“Idiot.”
The man swallowed.
“You wanted the girl eliminated.”
“No.”
Elena looked up.
“I wanted Vincent to believe someone wanted her eliminated.”
The man went pale.
“Then who sent the assassin?”
Elena’s expression changed.
Because she had been asking herself the same question.
And somewhere in Chicago, a second player had entered the game.
May you like
Someone who did not want Chelsea frightened.
Someone wanted her dead.
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