Chapter 2 - THE SILVER POCKET WATCH
The gold pen hovered a fraction of an inch above the thick parchment.
Leo Castiglione was about to sign his life away.
Dieter was sweating through his collar, his eyes fixed on the tip of the pen.
Klaus had a thin, victorious smile playing on his lips.
Blair’s hand trembled around the neck of the Barolo bottle. She wasn’t a hero. She was a waitress drowning in debt, living in a freezing apartment, trying to keep a sick cat alive.
But she couldn’t watch a man walk into an execution.
“Don’t sign.”
The words slipped out of her mouth.
Quiet. Almost a whisper.
But in that silent, tension-filled room, it sounded like a gunshot.
Leo’s hand stopped.
Dieter’s head snapped toward her, his face draining of all color.
Klaus frowned, leaning forward in his chair. "What did she say?" he barked in heavy, accented English.
Blair didn’t look at the Germans. She looked directly into Leo’s exhausted, dark eyes.
She switched to German. Flawless, rapid Frankfurt street slang.
“He just told them to position the snipers for Thursday once you sign. They aren't partnering with you. They’re burying you.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Dieter made a choked, pathetic sound in the back of his throat. He reached into his jacket, a panicked, jerky movement.
He never even cleared his lap.
Rocco, the giant bodyguard who had been standing like a statue, moved with terrifying speed.
He didn’t draw a gun. He simply grabbed the back of Dieter’s head and slammed his face into the mahogany table.
Wood cracked.
Dieter slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Klaus and Henrik shot out of their chairs, reaching for their waistbands.
But Leo Castiglione was already standing.
He hadn't raised his voice. He hadn't drawn a weapon. But the gold pen in his hand was suddenly driven straight through the center of the leather contract, pinning it to the table.
Leo pulled a heavy black pistol from his coat and leveled it at Klaus’s chest.
“Hands on the table,” Leo said. His voice was dead calm. “Both of you.”
The Germans slowly raised their hands, their eyes darting to Rocco, who now had a gun pressed to Henrik’s temple.
Leo didn't look at them. He looked at Blair.
She was backing away, her heart hammering against her ribs, the wine bottle trembling in her grip.
“You speak German,” Leo stated. It wasn't a question.
“I lived in Frankfurt,” Blair whispered, her voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll just go—”
“No, you won't.”
Leo stepped around the table. He didn't point the gun at her, but his presence was a physical wall blocking the door.
“If you walk out that door, Klaus’s men will have you in the trunk of a car before you reach the subway.” Leo’s dark eyes searched her face. “You just declared war on the biggest syndicate in Europe. You’re coming with me.”
Before Blair could argue, the kitchen door swung open.
Sal, her manager, marched in. “Blair, I told you to—”
Sal stopped. He saw the guns. He saw Dieter bleeding on the floor.
Rocco grabbed Blair by the arm, not roughly, but with enough force to tell her she had no choice.
“Out the back,” Leo ordered.
They moved through the kitchen like ghosts.
Within two minutes, Blair was shoved into the back of a black SUV idling in the alley. Leo slid in beside her, while Rocco took the wheel.
The tires squealed as they tore out into the rainy Chicago night.
Blair huddled against the leather door, terrified. “Please,” she gasped. “I just wanted to help. Don't hurt me.”
Leo ignored her. He was dialing a burner phone. “We have a leak. Dieter flipped. Burn the waterfront warehouses and move Lily to the secondary location.”
He hung up and finally turned to Blair.
He noticed her clutching her cheap canvas purse to her chest.
“Give it to me,” Leo said.
“It’s just my things—”
He reached over and pulled the bag from her grip. He unzipped it, dumping the contents onto the seat between them.
Lipstick. A train pass. Keys. Seventy-four cents in loose change.
And a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch.
Leo froze.
The air in the car seemed to turn to ice.
He slowly reached out and picked up the watch. His thumb traced a very specific, jagged scratch across the silver casing.
He flipped it open. The clock face was cracked.
Leo’s breathing changed. The cold, calculated mob boss vanished, replaced by a man staring at a ghost.
He turned his dark, intense gaze to Blair.
“Where did you get this?” his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.
“It was my father’s,” Blair choked out, terrified. “He gave it to me before he died.”
Leo’s eyes widened. “Your father was Thomas Mercer?”
Blair nodded, tears prickling her eyes.
Leo stared at her, a shocking realization washing over his scarred face. “Answer One, Open Two,” she thought wildly. He knew her father. But how?
“Thomas Mercer didn't die of a heart attack in Frankfurt,” Leo said softly, his voice trembling with a decade of suppressed rage. “He was murdered. Because he was my accountant.”
He closed the watch with a sharp click.
“And the man who ordered the hit,” Leo continued, his eyes burning into hers, “was Klaus.”
Before Blair could process the fact that her entire life was a lie, Rocco cursed violently from the front seat.
“Boss!”
Blair looked out the windshield.
May you like
Two black sedans had just blown through a red light, swerving directly into their lane.
They were boxing them in.
