Chapter 1 - The Final Bet
Grant Holloway grabbed Claire Bennett's wrist and shoved her toward the poker table.
"Fifty thousand. I'm putting Claire in."
Vincent Moretti looked down and noticed Claire's cracked silver bracelet beside the chips.
Three numbers had been scratched into its clasp.
Vincent stopped looking at the cards.
This was no longer a poker game.
For three full seconds, no one in the room moved.
The private suite on the forty-third floor had hosted men who could lose a year's salary before midnight and laugh while ordering another bottle of bourbon. Tonight, though, the laughter was gone.
Claire stood beside Grant with her shoulders rigid.
Her dark red dress had slipped slightly at one shoulder where he had grabbed her. A purple mark circled one wrist.
Vincent Moretti saw it.
He saw everything.
Grant did not seem to notice the silence he had created.
"I'm serious," Grant said.
Vincent leaned back in his chair.
Across the green felt between them sat nearly two hundred thousand dollars in chips.
"You've already lost your watches," Vincent said.
Grant swallowed.
"And your car."
Grant's jaw tightened.
"And the deed to the condo you don't actually own."
Two men standing near the windows exchanged glances.
Grant forced a laugh.
"So?"
Vincent's eyes moved toward Claire.
She refused to meet them.
"So now you're wagering a human being?"
"I'm not wagering her," Grant snapped. "I'm settling a debt."
Claire finally looked at him.
The expression on her face hurt more than anger would have.
She looked embarrassed.
Not surprised.
That bothered Vincent.
"Grant," she said quietly. "Stop."
Grant turned on her.
"You wanted me to fix this."
"I wanted you to stop gambling."
"I said I'd fix it."
"You said that three months ago."
Grant's cheeks reddened.
Vincent watched the exchange without speaking.
He had known Grant Holloway for approximately ninety minutes.
It had been enough.
Grant was the kind of man who wore confidence like an expensive suit even after everybody in the room knew it was rented.
Claire was different.
Vincent had noticed her the moment she entered.
Not because she was beautiful, though she was.
Not because her full figure drew several looks from men around the table.
He noticed her because she had counted every exit.
The service corridor.
The elevator.
The balcony doors.
The hall toward the kitchen.
People did not count exits unless they had learned to fear rooms with only one way out.
Grant grabbed her wrist again.
Vincent's expression changed.
"Take your hand off her."
Grant stared at him.
"What?"
Vincent did not raise his voice.
"I won't say it twice."
Grant released Claire.
She immediately pulled her hand against her chest.
Vincent gathered his cards.
"Your proposal is ridiculous."
Grant's bravado faltered.
"Then I'll owe you."
"You already owe me."
"I'll pay."
"With what?"
Grant glanced toward Claire.
That answer was enough.
Vincent pushed his cards facedown toward the dealer.
"I'm calling."
Grant blinked.
"You'll take the bet?"
Vincent looked at Claire.
"No."
Grant frowned.
"Then what are you calling?"
"Your bluff."
Vincent turned over his cards.
Four kings.
The dealer inhaled softly.
Grant stared down at his own full house.
His face emptied.
Vincent pushed back his chair and stood.
At six foot two, he did not need theatrics to control a room.
Grant stepped away automatically.
Vincent walked around the table.
Claire took a half step back when he approached.
He noticed.
So he stopped.
"I don't own you," Vincent said.
Her eyes lifted.
Grant laughed nervously.
"Come on, Moretti. Don't pretend you suddenly grew morals."
Vincent looked at him.
"Leave."
Grant's smile disappeared.
"You can't throw me out."
Vincent glanced toward two guards.
Grant corrected himself.
"Fine. I'm leaving."
He reached for Claire.
Vincent caught his wrist before he touched her.
Grant froze.
The movement had been quick but almost casual.
Vincent squeezed just enough to make his meaning clear.
"Don't touch her again."
Grant's face tightened.
"She's my fiancée."
Claire spoke before Vincent could.
"No."
Grant stared at her.
She slipped the engagement ring from her finger.
Her hand trembled.
She placed the ring beside Grant's losing cards.
"Not anymore."
The silence afterward was different.
Grant looked at the ring.
Then at Claire.
"You think he'll protect you?"
Claire's face lost color.
Grant smiled.
That reaction interested Vincent.
"He doesn't even know who you are," Grant continued.
"Grant," Claire whispered.
"Oh, now you're scared?"
Vincent released him.
"What is he talking about?"
Claire did not answer.
Grant backed toward the elevator.
"Ask her."
Claire closed her eyes.
"Ask her why she changes apartments every six months."
Vincent's gaze sharpened.
"Grant."
"Ask her why she won't use her real birthday online."
Claire's breathing became shallow.
"Stop."
"Ask her why she checks underneath every car before she gets inside."
"Stop."
Grant smiled cruelly.
"Ask her what happened in Milwaukee."
Claire went still.
Not frightened.
Destroyed.
Vincent saw the difference.
Grant stepped into the elevator.
The doors began closing.
"You wanted to play hero, Moretti?"
His smile widened through the narrowing gap.
"Congratulations."
The doors shut.
Claire stood motionless.
Vincent looked toward his security chief, Marco Bellini.
"Make sure Holloway leaves the building."
Marco nodded.
Then he touched his earpiece.
His expression changed.
Vincent caught it immediately.
"What?"
Marco raised one hand.
Everyone went quiet.
He listened.
"How many?"
Another pause.
His eyes moved toward Claire.
"Understood."
Vincent's voice hardened.
"Marco."
"Four men entered the lobby two minutes ago."
"Armed?"
"Visible shoulder rigs. Maybe more."
"Police?"
"No."
Vincent looked toward Claire.
She had become so pale that the freckles across her nose stood out sharply.
Marco continued.
"They asked the concierge which floor the private poker game was on."
Vincent glanced toward the hallway.
"Lock the elevator."
"Already done."
Marco listened again.
"They're using the service stairs."
Claire took one step backward.
Vincent saw panic finally break through her composure.
"You know them."
It was not a question.
Claire shook her head too quickly.
"Claire."
"I need to leave."
"You can't."
"I have to."
"Four armed men are coming up the stairwell."
"Then I really have to leave."
She moved toward the service corridor.
Vincent blocked her path without touching her.
"Who are they?"
"Please."
"Who are they?"
Claire looked around.
Every armed man in the suite was watching her.
She swallowed.
"If they see you protecting me, they'll come after you too."
Marco almost smiled at that.
Vincent did not.
"They already walked armed into my building."
"It's not about you."
"It became about me when they crossed the lobby."
Claire shook her head.
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it."
Her eyes filled.
"They'll kill anyone standing next to me."
Something slammed against the service stairwell door in the distance.
Every guard drew a weapon.
Claire flinched.
Vincent stayed still.
Another impact.
Closer.
Marco moved toward the hall.
"Boss."
Vincent nodded.
"Get her behind the bar."
Claire grabbed his sleeve.
"No."
He looked down at her hand.
She released it immediately.
"If they see armed resistance, it'll get worse."
"Who are they?"
She stared at the locked hallway door.
Another heavy impact echoed.
Then silence.
Vincent lowered his voice.
"Claire."
Her lips trembled.
"I testified against someone."
"Who?"
She looked at him.
"A man named Damian Rourke."
Marco stopped moving.
Vincent's face gave away almost nothing.
But Claire saw recognition.
"You know him."
Vincent did not answer.
Marco did.
"Everybody knows him."
Claire's hope disappeared.
Damian Rourke had spent fifteen years building a network that looked legitimate from the outside: logistics companies, private security firms, real estate development.
Underneath it sat extortion, weapons trafficking, bribery, and murder.
He was also one of the few men in Chicago arrogant enough to threaten Vincent Moretti.
Vincent looked at Claire.
"You testified publicly?"
"No."
"Federal grand jury?"
Her silence answered.
"When?"
"Eight months ago."
"Then why aren't you in protection?"
Claire looked away.
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
"Claire."
"They removed me."
Marco frowned.
"Federal witness protection doesn't just remove a murder witness."
"They do when they decide she lied."
Vincent studied her.
"Did you?"
"No."
"Then why did they think you did?"
Claire opened her mouth.
A buzzing sound interrupted her.
Her purse.
She stared at it.
The phone buzzed again.
Marco retrieved it and checked the screen.
"No caller ID."
Claire whispered, "Don't answer."
The phone stopped.
Then buzzed again.
A text appeared.
Marco's expression darkened.
He handed the phone to Vincent.
Claire tried to stop him.
"Don't."
Too late.
Vincent looked at the message.
A photograph filled the screen.
It had been taken less than a minute earlier.
From outside the building.
Claire standing beside Vincent near the poker table.
Someone had photographed them through the windows.
Beneath it were six words.
WE SEE WHO YOU CHOSE, CLAIRE.
Vincent slowly looked toward the glass wall.
"Kill the lights."
The suite went dark.
City lights remained beyond the windows.
Marco pulled Claire down.
A sharp crack came from across the room.
The glass behind Vincent exploded.
Someone screamed.
Vincent dragged Claire behind the poker table as another round hit the window.
"Sniper!" Marco shouted.
Guards moved.
Claire covered her head.
Vincent shielded her with his body.
"Still think this isn't about me?"
Another bullet struck the marble column.
Claire looked at him.
Fear and guilt mixed in her face.
"I tried to tell you."
Marco crawled closer.
"Service team has two men pinned downstairs. Two more disappeared."
Vincent looked toward Claire.
"Rourke sent them?"
"I don't know."
"Who else wants you?"
Claire did not answer.
A security monitor flickered on behind the bar.
One of the guards pulled up the camera feed.
Vincent watched four frames appear.
Lobby.
Elevator.
Service stairs.
Parking garage.
Then the feed from the forty-third-floor hallway appeared.
A man stepped into view.
He wore a dark suit.
No mask.
No hurry.
He looked directly into the camera.
Claire made a sound Vincent had not heard from her before.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"No."
Vincent turned.
"You know him."
Claire backed away from the screen.
"No."
The man on the monitor reached into his jacket.
He removed a white envelope.
Then held it toward the camera.
Claire's name was written across the front.
Marco zoomed in.
There was something else beneath her name.
A federal case number.
Claire stared at it.
"That's impossible."
Vincent looked at her.
"Why?"
Her voice barely worked.
"Because that case was sealed."
The man outside placed the envelope against the door.
Then he stepped aside.
A second figure appeared behind him.
Claire stopped breathing.
Vincent saw her expression collapse.
"Who is that?"
Claire whispered one name.
"Daniel."
"Who is Daniel?"
She looked at Vincent.
"My brother."
Vincent turned toward the monitor.
Claire's brother lifted his eyes directly toward the camera.
May you like
Then he raised one hand.
And knocked.
