Chapter 2 - THE COAT
Harper stared at the thick black fabric of Victor Rossi’s sleeve.
Women like her—tired, overlooked, dressed in hand-me-downs—did not leave high-society galas on the arm of a man who controlled the city’s underworld.
“I don’t know you.”
It was a ridiculous thing to say. Everyone knew Victor Rossi.
“You know my name,” Victor said patiently. “And I know yours, Harper Callaway. Your father owes me three million dollars. But we aren’t going to talk about your father tonight.”
Harper’s stomach dropped. Three million dollars. It sounded like a death sentence.
Victor saw the panic on her face. He moved slightly closer, positioning his broad shoulders between Harper and the staring ballroom.
“Breathe,” he commanded softly. She obeyed. “I didn’t cross this room to collect a debt. If I wanted to collect, I would have sent men who don’t wear tuxedos. Take my arm, Harper.”
Slowly, her trembling hand reached out and rested on his forearm. Beneath the expensive wool of his suit, he felt like solid iron.
He led her through the parting sea of the city’s elite. No one spoke. No one made eye contact.
They reached the grand foyer just as Diana practically sprinted out of the coat check. She was out of breath, clutching Harper’s thin wool trench coat like a shield.
“Mr. Rossi,” Diana gasped, her smile tight and desperate. “Here is her coat. But surely, there’s been a misunderstanding. Harper is... she’s unwell tonight. If you require my father’s attention, I am his primary associate—”
Victor stopped.
He didn’t look at Diana’s face. He looked at the coat in her hands.
He took it from her, his movements terrifyingly deliberate.
“You call this a coat?” Victor’s voice dropped to a lethal murmur. “It’s fifteen degrees outside. This is paper.”
Diana swallowed hard, shrinking back. “It’s all she—”
“I didn’t ask for an excuse,” Victor interrupted.
Without breaking eye contact with Diana, Victor shrugged off his own custom-tailored cashmere overcoat. It was heavy, lined with dark silk, and radiated his body heat.
He wrapped it around Harper’s shoulders. The hem fell past her knees. It smelled of cedarwood and power.
“Mr. Rossi,” Diana tried one last time, her voice cracking. “My sister doesn’t belong in your world. She’s a nobody.”
Victor finally looked at Diana’s face.
“She is the only person in this building worth my time. If you ever speak to her like that again, I will buy your father’s failing company just to fire you.”
Diana went entirely pale.
Victor placed a hand on the small of Harper’s back and guided her through the heavy brass doors into the freezing Chicago night.
A sleek black Maybach idled at the curb. A driver immediately opened the rear door.
Victor helped Harper inside. The interior was warm, smelling of rich leather. Victor slid in beside her. The door closed, shutting out the gala, her sister, and the cold.
“Take off the shoes,” Victor said as the car pulled away.
Harper hesitated. “I’ll bleed on your upholstery.”
“I don’t care about the upholstery.”
She reached down and unbuckled the silver heels. The relief was instantaneous, followed immediately by a sharp, burning pain as the blisters met the air.
Victor opened a small compartment built into the console. He pulled out a first-aid kit.
Before Harper could protest, he lifted her bare foot and rested it on his knee. His large, rough hands were surprisingly gentle as he wiped away the blood with an antiseptic pad.
“Why are you doing this?” Harper whispered. “My father owes you three million dollars. Are you taking me as collateral?”
Victor applied a bandage to her heel.
“Your father doesn’t owe me money, Harper.”
Harper frowned, confused. “You just said in the ballroom—”
“I said he owes me three million dollars. That is the market value of what he stole.” Victor lowered her foot and looked her dead in the eye. “But it was never about the cash.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
“Your father came to me five years ago begging for a loan. I said no. So, he broke into my private vault and took something that belonged to my family. Something he used to build his little real estate empire.”
Victor handed her a small, creased photograph.
Harper looked down at it.
The breath was knocked completely out of her lungs.
May you like
It was a picture of Harper when she was twelve years old. She was standing in a sunny park, smiling.
But standing right next to her, holding her hand, was Victor Rossi.
