Chapter 2 - The Cold Rain of Michigan Avenue
The November wind cutting off Lake Michigan was brutal, driving heavy, freezing rain sideways down Michigan Avenue.
Mireia didn't care. She didn't wait for the valet to fetch her car. She didn't put on her coat. She walked out of the revolving glass doors of L’Orangerie straight into the downpour, her heels clicking rhythmically against the wet concrete, the icy water soaking through her emerald dress within seconds.
She felt numb, yet every nerve ending in her body was screaming.
Six years.
Six years she had bent herself backward to fit into Caleb Vance’s pristine, high-society world. She had given up her dreams of pursuing her master’s in classical history to take a quiet administrative job at her father’s firm. She had endured Eleanor Vance’s subtle, cruel snide remarks about her posture, her laughter, her lack of interest in country club politics. She had let Caleb mold her, chip away at her spirit, convincing her that her feelings of emotional isolation were symptoms of her own flawed, insecure mind.
“You don’t get to make me feel lucky you settled.”
She stopped under the pale glow of a street lamp, her chest heaving as she let out a loud, shuddering breath. The rain mixed with the hot tears spilling over her eyelashes, washing away six years of deceit in a matter of moments. She pulled her hair back from her wet face, staring at her bare left hand. The skin where the heavy engagement ring had sat for three months was red, bruised, and free.
A low, heavy rumble echoed from the curb beside her.
A massive, custom matte-black Maybach pulled up to the sidewalk, its dark tinted windows completely obscuring the interior. The driver’s side door opened, and a broad-shouldered man in a black trench coat stepped out, holding a large black umbrella.
It wasn't a driver. It was Darius Villano himself.
He held the umbrella over Mireia’s head, instantly shielding her from the driving rain. The heavy scent of rich leather, expensive cedarwood cologne, and cold rain wrapped around her.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia, Miss Dalton,” Darius said softly.
Mireia didn't move away, though every survival instinct she possessed told her that standing alone on a dark street with Darius Villano was infinitely more dangerous than walking into a cage of lions.
“Did my father send you to bring me back?” Mireia asked, her voice tight, cold, and unwavering despite the shivering of her body. “Tell him I’d rather sleep on the sidewalk than look at Caleb Vance again.”
“Your father is currently leaving the restaurant through the service exit,” Darius replied quietly, his hazel eyes tracking the water droplets rolling down her pale jawline. “And I do not take orders from Arthur Dalton.”
Mireia turned her head, looking up at him. Even in heels, she had to look up to meet his eyes. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, probing deep into her soul as if searching for something specific behind her anger.
“Then what do you want, Mr. Villano?” she asked flatly.
Darius reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out the small velvet jewelry case she had dropped in the dining room and held it out toward her.
Mireia froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
She snatched the box from his hand, quickly popping it open to verify that the silver signet ring was still inside. She closed it tightly, clutching it against her wet dress as if it were a precious talisman.
“Where did you get this ring, Mireia?” Darius asked, his tone dropping an octave, shifting from polite formality to a dark, commanding intensity.
Mireia narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “It belonged to my mother. She gave it to me before she died when I was twelve. It’s a family heirloom. Why do you care?”
Darius didn't answer immediately. He stared at her, his hazel eyes flickering with a complex mixture of dark satisfaction, ancient reverence, and something terrifyingly close to obsession.
“Your mother was Helen Vance-Dalton,” Darius said smoothly, stepping an inch closer. The heat radiating from his broad frame offered a stark contrast to the freezing wind around them. “She died fourteen years ago in a house fire in Geneva, Switzerland. A fire that was officially ruled an electrical accident.”
Mireia’s heart hammered against her ribs. “How do you know about my mother’s death? That was a private family matter in Europe!”
“Nothing that happens in Europe is private from me,” Darius replied flatly. He opened the rear door of the Maybach, gesturing toward the plush, heated leather interior. “Get in, Mireia. It is freezing, your dress is ruined, and if we stand out here discussing the crescent and the flame, three different intelligence agencies will have our location by midnight.”
Mireia stared at the dark interior of the luxury vehicle, then looked back at Darius’s unreadable face.
“Why should I trust you?” she demanded. “You’re a mob boss. My father says you’re the most dangerous man in Chicago.”
Darius let out a low, dry chuckle—a dark, melodic sound that sent a sudden, strange thrill straight down her spine.
“Your father is a hypocrite who sold your six-year happiness for a corporate tax break, Miss Dalton,” Darius said coldly. “I am a man of my word. I offer you warmth, protection, and answers about your mother that Arthur Dalton has spent fourteen years hiding from you.”
He stepped back, holding the door open.
“Or,” Darius added softly, “you can call a taxi, go back to your apartment, and let Caleb Vance spend the next six months convincing your family that you’re unstable.”
Mireia looked down at the velvet box in her hand. She thought of Caleb’s pathetic, flushed face. She thought of her father’s cold, demanding voice. She thought of the dark, mysterious legacy her mother had taken to her grave.
May you like
Mireia lifted her chin, pulled her velvet dress around her, and stepped into the Maybach.
Darius closed the door behind her with a heavy, satisfying thud that shut out the cold, the rain, and her old life forever.
