Morning over Oak Brook looked too clean for what was about to happen.
The Rossy estate sat behind wrought-iron gates and manicured lawns bright with early sun. Limestone columns rose from the portico. Armed men stood near the fountain pretending to be discreet, though there was nothing discreet about the bulge beneath a suit jacket when the man wearing it had murder in his job description.
I sat in the back of Victor’s armored Mercedes Maybach wearing an emerald trench coat over a black wrap dress that hugged me exactly where I had spent years trying to hide.
No beige drape.
No empire waist designed to make me disappear.
No apology sewn into the seams.
My hair was down. My mouth was red. The Cartier ring was gone. On my right wrist was a bruise shaped like Dominic’s fingers, and I had not covered it.
Victor sat beside me in a navy Brioni suit, one ankle crossed over his knee, calm as snowfall over a grave.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“No.”
He looked amused.
“Liar.”
I turned to him.
“Fine. Yes. But not about them.”
“About what?”
I looked through the windshield at the estate growing larger.
“That I’ll become a piece on someone else’s board again.”
Victor was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Then remember you are not here because I carried you. You are here because you chose the door.”
I glanced at him.
“And if I decide to walk back through it?”
“Then I open it.”
I did not believe him completely.
But I wanted to.
That was dangerous enough.
The car stopped.
Victor stepped out first. Every Rossy guard stiffened. They knew exactly what his presence meant. A North Side boss arriving uninvited on South Side ground was not a visit.
It was a match struck near gasoline.
Then Victor walked around the car and offered me his hand.
I looked at it.
Large. Steady. Waiting.
I took it.
His grip was warm and grounding, but he did not pull. He let me rise on my own.
Together, we climbed the steps.
Inside, the foyer was already at war.
My father stood near a grand piano, face red, cigar forgotten between his fingers. Carmine Rossy, the aging South Side patriarch, stood opposite him, fury carved into every fold of his face. Dominic lingered near the bar with a glass of bourbon, pale, hungover, and visibly relieved when he first saw me.
Then he saw Victor.
The glass slipped from his hand.
It shattered across the Persian rug.
Good.
“Clara,” my father breathed, stepping toward me.
His eyes darted to Victor’s hand resting lightly at my back.
Not possessive.
Present.
“Thomas,” Victor said smoothly. “Carmine.”
Carmine’s hand moved toward his jacket.
Every Casano man who had entered behind us drew at once.
The Rossy guards answered.
The foyer became a loaded weapon.
Victor did not look at the guns.
He looked at Carmine.
“Move your hand another inch, old man, and your grandson will spend his wedding week choosing caskets instead of flowers.”
Dominic’s face twisted.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he spat. “Casano, what is this? You picking up my leftovers now? Or are you that desperate for the routes?”
The old Clara would have flinched.
I did not.
Victor moved before anyone else could.
Three steps.
One hand.
Dominic’s back hit the marble column with a crack that made Chloe, wherever she was hiding, probably hear the sound in her bones. Victor’s hand closed around Dominic’s throat, lifting him just enough that his polished shoes scraped the floor.
“Say another word about my fiancée,” Victor whispered, “and I will remove your tongue in front of your father and mail it to your mistress in a jewelry box.”
Dominic clawed at his wrist, face purple.
“Victor,” I said.
He looked at me.
I held his gaze.
“Put him down. He’s more useful conscious.”
Something flickered in Victor’s eyes.
Approval.
He released Dominic.
The younger man collapsed onto the glass shards, gasping.
I stepped forward and removed a manila folder from my leather tote.
My father’s eyes narrowed.
“Clara, what have you done?”
“What you should have done years ago,” I said.
I tossed the folder onto the marble console.
“The Blake family is dissolving its tentative alliance with the Rossy syndicate, effective immediately. Navy Pier access remains under Blake control. Calumet River logistics will be renegotiated through Casano Holdings with protective clauses guaranteeing Blake majority oversight.”
Carmine went pale.
My father stared at me.
“You had no authority—”
“I have leverage.” I turned to him. “I also have recordings from Vera Wang. Their private rooms have security audio for insurance disputes. Beatrice sent me a copy after Dominic grabbed my arm.”
My father’s face changed.
For the first time, shame entered the room.
Not enough.
But some.
“You let them plan a marriage around my humiliation,” I said. “You may not have known what he called me, but you knew what this was. You knew I was being traded for routes.”
Thomas Blake swallowed.
“I was trying to keep you safe.”
“No. You were trying to keep the business safe and hoped I would learn to call it security.”
Carmine slammed one hand on the console.
“This is nonsense. Thomas, control your daughter.”
I laughed.
The sound surprised everyone, including me.