Chapter 4 - The Whisper in the Hallway
Leo didn’t immediately follow Gabriel into the study. Instead, he lingered by the foot of the sweeping mahogany staircase, his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his tailored trousers. He watched Clare with sharp, analytical eyes—the eyes of a man who missed nothing and trusted no one.
“You had us worried tonight, Mrs. Russo,” Leo said softly, his voice carrying an oily smoothness that made Clare’s skin crawl.
Clare kept her gaze fixed on the stairs, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking intimidated, though her left arm was throbbing so violently she felt sick to her stomach. “I wasn't aware my travel arrangements required your personal sign-off, Mr. Vain.”
“They don't,” Leo replied, taking a slow step toward her. The faint scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder drifted in his wake. “Except when they intersect with things they shouldn't. The service road where old Elias almost got run over? It’s not on the way from the pavilion gate to the main road, Clare. It’s a dead end.”
Clare’s heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her expression to remain icy and indifferent. She turned her head slightly to look down at him, letting her lip curl in mild disdain.
“Are you implying I was taking a midnight stroll through the service yard in a designer evening gown, Leo?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or are you just upset that your security detail was too incompetent to secure the perimeter while your boss was bleeding out?”
Leo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He stopped just a few feet away, leaning in slightly. “I’m saying that Gabriel is a very paranoid man. He believes in loyalty above all else. But he also believes in cold, hard facts. When his wife walks home through a blizzard with bloody feet and a suspiciously stiff left arm... a smart man starts asking questions.”
Clare felt a cold bead of sweat roll down her spine. *He knows,* she thought. Or at least, he suspects enough to be dangerous. Leo wasn't just Gabriel’s second-in-command; he was ambitious, calculating, and dangerously observant. If Leo connected her broken arm to the warehouse collapse at the shipyard—where Gabriel had been trapped beneath burning debris—he would realize she had been right there in the thick of it, pulling her husband from the wreckage while Leo was busy saving his own skin.
And if Gabriel found out that his wife had risked her life to drag him out of the fire while his trusted lieutenant watched from a safe distance... the fragile hierarchy of the Russo syndicate would shatter overnight.
“My arm is bruised from the crowd crush at the pavilion when the paparazzi rushed the stage,” Clare lied smoothly, her voice cutting through the heavy air like a razor. She stepped closer to him, invading his personal space, using her height and her aristocratic composure to stare him down. “And my feet are bleeding because your incompetent men stole my emergency flats from the coat check. If you have an accusation to make, Leo, take it to your boss. Otherwise, get out of my way before I tell him how you abandoned him at the shipyard.”
The color drained from Leo’s face for a fraction of a second. The reminder of the shipyard ambush—and his own tactical retreat while Gabriel was pinned—was a lethal secret they both shared. Leo had covered his tracks well, but Clare had seen him run.
Leo’s jaw tightened, his charming facade cracking to reveal the cold, vicious predator underneath. “You play a dangerous game, Clare. Playing the helpless trophy wife while walking through a war zone. One day, your luck is going to run out, and Gabriel won't be there to save you.”
“And when my luck runs out, Leo, I promise you won't be around to watch,” she whispered venomously.
Without waiting for a reply, Clare turned her back on him and began walking up the grand staircase, forcing every step to look effortless despite the agonizing pain screaming through her broken bones. She could feel Leo’s burning gaze on her back all the way to the landing.
Once she reached the sanctuary of the master suite, she locked the heavy oak door behind her, leaned back against the wood, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint, blue-white glow of the snowstorm reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows. She sank slowly onto the edge of the oversized velvet bed, clutching her left arm against her chest. The pain was unbearable, hot and sharp, radiating all the way up to her shoulder.
She pulled back the damp silk sleeve of her dress and unwrapped the makeshift bandage she had fashioned earlier with medical tape from the estate’s downstairs powder room. The plaster cast was cracked, stained with mud and dried blood from the night's chaos.
She needed a doctor. A real doctor, not the underground syndicate medic Gabriel used for gunshot wounds, who would report every detail straight back to her husband.
She reached into her hidden vanity drawer, pulled out a burner phone she had kept secret for months, and dialed a single number. It rang twice before a raspy, tired voice answered on the other end.
May you like
“Speak.”
“It’s Clare,” she said quietly, staring out at the blizzard raging against the glass. “I need you at the north gate in twenty minutes. Bring a saw and a fresh cast. My arm is broken, and my husband is about to tear Chicago apart.”
