Chapter 3 - The Rules of the CageBy afternoon, Kian had returned from a mysterious errand with a laptop, a burner phone, and a stack of legal documents that looked like they belonged in a federal prosecutor's office rather than a bachelor pad in downtown Chicago.
I sat at the kitchen island, nursing a cup of chamomile tea Kian had practically forced me to drink, while Ronan paced near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Your father’s apartment lease is in his name, but the utilities and secondary credit lines have been tied to shell corporations for the last three years,” Ronan said, reviewing a digital file on Kian’s tablet. “Which means he’s been committing systematic fraud against the city’s housing authority.”
I blinked, staring at him over the rim of my mug. “Fraud? I thought he was just a miserable drunk with a gambling problem.”
“Drunks with gambling problems don't usually afford downtown rent on a zero-dollar pension,” Kian chimed in from the couch, where he was cleaning the slide of a matte-black Glock with clinical precision. “Gregor’s been running protection rackets for small-time pawnshops on the west side. He’s small fry, but he’s loud. And loud people draw attention.”
“Attention you don't want,” I added, my stomach tightening. “So what happens now? You destroy him legally, and he goes away?”
“He goes away,” Ronan confirmed, his eyes locking onto mine. “Permanently. But that means you can’t go back to your job, your apartment, or your routine. Your old life ended the second you stepped out onto that street last night.”
The reality of those words settled over me like a wet blanket. My apartment—a tiny, bug-infested studio apartment over a dry cleaner’s where I kept my sketchbooks and my half-finished architectural blueprints—was gone. My job as an assistant at a failing design firm was gone.
“I have nothing,” I whispered, looking down into my tea.
“You have your life,” Ronan said, his voice dropping into that low, unyielding register. “And you have a clean slate. That’s more than most people get.”
He walked over to the island, placing a black keycard and a sleek smartphone next to my mug.
“This card opens the lobby elevator and the parking garage,” Ronan instructed. “The phone has three numbers pre-programmed: Kian, mine, and emergency services. You do not leave this building unaccompanied. You do not answer the door for anyone unless they use the private passcode—winter-pine.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Are you seriously giving me a secret password like I’m a spy in a bad movie?”
“I’m giving you rules,” Ronan corrected sharply, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. “If you break them, you put yourself back in your father’s reach. And I promise you, Iris—I won't always be standing on the corner when you need to be caught.”
The intensity in his voice sucked all the oxygen out of the room. I couldn't look away from his eyes. They were dangerous, beautiful, and completely uncompromising.
“Why?” I asked again, desperate to understand the mechanics of the man who had suddenly hijacked my existence. “What do you want from me, Ronan? Nobody does all of this out of the goodness of their heart. Not in Chicago.”
Ronan didn't flinch. He didn't look away.
“I don't want anything from you,” he said quietly. “Except for you to stay alive long enough to realize you don't have to run anymore.”
Before I could formulate a reply, the front door’s electronic lock clicked, and a sharp, feminine voice echoed from the foyer.
“Ronan? Are you in here? If you missed another board meeting because you were chasing down more of your stray dogs, I swear to God—”
A woman stepped around the corner into the kitchen, freezing dead in her tracks the moment she saw me sitting at the island in an oversized cashmere sweater that clearly didn't belong to her.
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She was stunning—tall, wearing a sharp designer pantsuit, her blonde hair pulled back into a flawless chignon, and a face carved out of ice and high society.
It was Victoria Vance. And she looked ready to commit murder.
