Chapter 4

The electronic lock on my pool terrace had been forced open.

The outdoor lounge area was a wreck. The encrypted documents, negotiation memos, transfer route drafts—everything I'd prepared for next week's signing in Zurich—were torn to shreds and soaked in the pool. Pulp floated on the surface like a white funeral.

On the table, scrawled in lipstick: "FAKE RICH BOY GET OUT."

I stood at the edge of the pool, shaking. Those files were the core of my family's financial strategy for the next three years—our only ticket into Europe through legitimate channels. Now they were gone.

I called the front desk. "Penthouse suite. My lock was breached, property destroyed. Send someone up. Now."

"Oh. Security's short-staffed. We'll get there in an hour."

"An hour? My suite was broken into, business secrets destroyed—"

"Relax, kid. A penthouse suite ain't cheap for a day. You should be taking photos instead of wasting time." He hung up.

I waited nearly an hour before a security guard finally sauntered over.

"Whoa. They really did a number on this place."

"What's the hotel going to do about this?"

He threw his hands up. "Not our problem. You're on your own. But honestly, if those files were that important, you wouldn't leave 'em by the pool, would you? Sounds like a setup for clout if you ask me."

"I pay tens of thousands a night for this room, my suite was broken into—"

He cut me off with a sigh. "Sir, we're security, not the FBI. You pissed someone off, you deal with it. Besides, a young guy like you in a suite this big? Who knows where those files even came from."

A shrill laugh came from behind me. Carl.

He pointed at the floating pulp and howled with laughter. "'Fake rich boy get out.' Hahaha! Guess I'm not the only one who thinks you're a fraud."

"Did you do this?"

"I didn't pick any locks. But... why would someone target you and nobody else? A young guy alone in a penthouse, strutting around like he owns the place, all 'I'm a big shot' attitude—everyone's sick of it. Word is you're just some influencer renting the suite for photo ops."

I turned to the guard. "Security footage."

His face tightened. "Camera on this floor's under maintenance. Not working."

I stared into his eyes. "Under maintenance. What a coincidence."

His eyes darted toward Carl. His voice suddenly turned bold. "Yeah, under maintenance. Nothing we can do."

It all snapped into focus. They were in it together.

Carl stepped closer, his eyes full of malice. "Everyone's guessing you're some rich woman's boy toy. Files destroyed? Maybe her husband finally caught on. Those papers were probably worthless anyway. Now there's room for my livestream. You play the poser, you pay the price."

I pulled out my phone and hit record, pointing the camera at both of them.

"Slander, breaking and entering, destruction of property. Expect to hear from my lawyer."

I turned to the guard. "I pay you hundreds a night in service fees, and you tell me it's not your problem? You can expect to be named in the lawsuit too."

Carl lunged, trying to snatch my phone. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

The guard grabbed my arm, his grip like a vise, holding me in place. Carl's palm cracked across my face.

"You little piece of shit! Rent a suite for two days and you think you're somebody? No one in Chicago's media circle messes with my wife! One word from her and you posers disappear for good!"

My cheek burned. I could taste blood in my mouth.

A lawyer? Too stupid. You can't reason with animals.

I spit a bloody wad onto the floor and pulled out my phone. Carl laughed.

"Calling backup? A nobody like you renting a suite for clout—who could you possibly call?"

The guard chimed in. "I'd advise you not to make this a bigger deal than it is. Mrs. Stalin's not someone you want to mess with. You rented a suite for a few days—just leave. Apologize to Carl, and this all goes away. Keep pushing, and those photos you staged? They'll come out. You'll be the one looking stupid."

Carl crossed his arms. "Last chance. Kneel, apologize, and hand over the pool access. Otherwise... my wife makes one call to Romano on the South Side, and you're done in Chicago. Romano could crush you with one finger."

Romano? The South Side capo who kissed my father's ring last Christmas?

I looked up at him, a cold smile spreading across my lips. Right in front of them, I dialed a number I hadn't called in years.

"Tell Romano he has twenty minutes to get his ass to the penthouse at Lakeside Grand. Tell him to bring his men, and drag that Pamela clown with him."

"And tell him if he's not on his knees, licking the blood off this floor in exactly twenty minutes... he won't live to see another Chicago sunrise."