Chapter 2 - The Art of the Counter-StrikeThe dawn over Lake Michigan broke in shades of bruised purple and metallic gray. By seven o’clock, the news had already detonated across every major media outlet and society blog in Chicago.
JEWELRY HEIST IN HIGH SOCIETY: JULIAN MORETTI DUMPS FIANCÉE EVELYN HART FOR HER SISTER SERENA—ONLY TO BE UPSTAGED BY OLDER BROTHER NIKOLAI MORETTI.
My phone had been buzzing nonstop on the marble kitchen island of my apartment since six-thirty. Missed calls from my mother. Panic-stricken voicemails from my father, whose real estate firm relied heavily on Moretti shipping contracts. And three frantic messages from Serena, alternating between crying about 'family unity' and demanding to know if I was 'stealing Nikolai out of spite.'
I didn't answer a single one. Instead, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows sipping black coffee, watching the early morning traffic crawl along Lake Shore Drive.
A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.
When I opened it, Nikolai stood on the threshold holding a thick, leather-bound folder and a steaming paper cup from a local artisanal bakery. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket today; his crisp white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, lightly scarred forearms.
“You look like you haven't slept,” Nikolai observed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
“I was too busy calculating how fast my father’s stock is going to plummet when the market opens at nine,” I replied dryly, taking the coffee cup from his hand. “Vanilla latte with oat milk. How did you know?”
“I have people who notice things,” Nikolai said smoothly, dropping the leather folder onto the kitchen island. He opened it to reveal a series of legal documents, corporate restructuring briefs, and property deeds. “And right now, your father’s logistics firm, Hart & Associates, is currently leveraged sixty percent against Moretti transport lines. Which means with one signature this morning, I can cut off their supply chain before breakfast.”
I looked down at the papers, feeling a cold, satisfying thrill ripple through my veins. “You move fast.”
“In my line of work, hesitation is fatal,” Nikolai replied, walking over to stand beside me at the window. He looked down at the street below, where a pair of paparazzi photographers were already lingering near the lobby entrance. “The formal engagement announcement is scheduled for tomorrow night at the Moretti family estate in Barrington. The entire Chicago Commission will be there. Julian and Serena are planning to use the gathering to officially request the council's blessing for their union.”
I turned my head to look up at him. “And we are going to crash it.”
“Not crash it,” Nikolai corrected, a dark, razor-sharp smile touching his lips. “We’re going to host it. My father left the estate to me in his primary trust, not Julian. When my brother and your sister walk through those oak doors expecting to be the center of attention, they’re going to find out that the master of the house has already chosen his wife.”
“My mother is going to have a stroke,” I murmured.
“Good. It'll save on medical insurance.”
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped my lips. Spending five years trying to be the ‘good, dependable daughter’ for a family that treated me like an invisible backdrop had left me exhausted. Standing here with Nikolai Moretti—the most feared man in the Midwest—I felt something entirely unfamiliar: dangerous.
“What do I wear?” I asked, meeting his gaze levelly.
Nikolai reached into his jacket pocket and slid a small, heavy black card across the counter. It bore an embossed gold address in the Gold Coast district and a single name: Atelier Vane.
“Ask for Madame Vane,” Nikolai instructed quietly. “Tell her to pull the obsidian silk gown with the emerald beadwork. It was imported from Milan last month. It wasn't meant for sale yet.”
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“And the price?”
“Consider it an investment in our joint venture,” Nikolai said, turning toward the door. He paused with his hand on the brass knob, looking back over his shoulder. “Wear your hair up, Evelyn. Show them the neck of a queen who refused to bow.”
