Chapter 1 - The Broken Rule
The first rule of surviving a man like Callum Russo was simple: never show weakness. The second was never, ever keep him waiting.
Sadie Miller broke both rules on a freezing Tuesday night.
She walked into his private booth at the Continental apologizing for the delay, her voice trembling slightly. Callum was half a second from dismissing her entirely when she stepped into the lamplight. He saw the blood on her ruined shoe. He saw the limp.
Time was the only currency Callum Russo truly respected. Money was infinite. Power was fluid. Time was a declining balance.
He sat in the rear booth of the Continental, a high-end steakhouse that existed largely to wash his family’s money, and stared at the gold hands of his Patek Philippe.
10 minutes past 9:00.
The ice in his scotch had already melted, diluting the amber liquor into something he no longer wanted to drink.
Sadie was 10 minutes late.
She was not a lieutenant, a union boss, a corrupt alderman, or a rival capo. She was an art appraiser, a civilian who spent her days covered in dust in the basement of a museum and her nights authenticating stolen 18th-century oils that Callum funneled through private auctions.
Sadie was quiet, aggressively competent, and usually 15 minutes early to everything.
Callum tapped his heavy silver lighter against the mahogany table in a sharp, rhythmic beat. The waiter hovering near a pillar flinched every time the metal struck wood.
Callum did not care.
He was calculating the exact words he would use to terminate Sadie’s contract. Competence did not excuse disrespect.
Then the heavy oak doors opened.
A blast of freezing Chicago rain entered with the muffled wail of a distant siren.
Sadie walked in.
Callum’s jaw tightened.
She handed a dripping umbrella to the hostess. Her normally neat trench coat was soaked dark across the shoulders, and her hair clung to her cheeks. She crossed the restaurant slowly and awkwardly.
“Mr. Russo.”
Her voice was steady but brittle.
“I apologize. The Red Line was stalled. I had to walk the last 6 blocks in the storm.”
Callum did not offer her a seat.
He looked at her from beneath heavy dark brows.
She was shivering. Rainwater ran from her chin onto the lapel of her coat.
Callum searched her expression for deception. The cynical part of him, the part that had kept him alive, expected an excuse involving a sick pet or a lost phone.
Instead, Sadie stood there with a leather portfolio held tightly against her chest.
“Sit.”
It was a command.
She moved toward the booth.
That was when he saw it.
Sadie shifted her weight onto her right leg and inhaled sharply.
It was involuntary.
Her face turned completely pale as she nearly collapsed into the leather seat, biting her lower lip until it lost its color.
Callum’s eyes moved beneath the table.
Her left leg extended awkwardly.
The sheer black tights were torn from the knee downward. Her sensible black pump had been damaged badly. The leather was ripped and streaked with mud.
And with something darker.
Blood.
Callum’s irritation vanished.
It did not become concern.
It hardened into cold focus.
Sadie opened her portfolio as though nothing were wrong.
“I brought the provenance documents for the Caravaggio sketch.”
Her voice was too loud and too fast.
“It’s authentic. Carbon dating on the paper matches the late 16th century. You’ll have no trouble with the auction house.”
Callum ignored the papers.
He leaned forward.
“Why are you limping?”
Sadie stopped arranging the documents.
She kept her eyes down.
“I slipped. The rain on the platform.”
“Look at me.”
She hesitated before raising her eyes.
They were normally sharp and intelligent, a stormy gray. Tonight they were dull with exhaustion and something close to panic.
“You slipped.”
Callum repeated it without emotion.
“Yes.”
He reached across the table.
He did not grab her.
He simply placed his large, calloused hand over her shaking fingers and pinned them to the leather folder.
Her skin was freezing.
“Sadie.”
His voice softened, which made it more dangerous.
“A fall on wet concrete bruises a knee.”
His thumb moved over her wrist.
“It scuffs a shoe.”
Then:
“It doesn't tear the heel off.”
His eyes dropped toward the dark bruising already forming around her wrist.
“And it doesn't leave defensive bruises shaped like fingers.”
Sadie tried to pull her hand away.
Callum held it in place.
A purplish-black ring was forming around the skin, unmistakably shaped by a heavy grip.
“Who did this?”
Sadie swallowed.
“It was just a mugging.”
Then quickly:
“Please, Mr. Russo. Can we talk about the painting?”
“No.”
Callum released her hand and stood.
He dropped a $100 bill beside the untouched scotch.
“We’re leaving.”
“I haven't given you the report.”
May you like
“The report doesn't matter.”
He stepped away from the booth.
