Chapter 3 - The Tower on Michigan Avenue
I pulled the car onto the shoulder near the Montrose exit, the hazard lights blinking rhythmically against the concrete barrier.
"Mr. DeSantis?" I managed to say, my voice raspy.
"My assistant informed me fifteen minutes ago that your personal cellular line was disconnected from the Whitaker Racing corporate account," Matteo said smoothly over the line. His tone was measured, devoid of urgency, yet intensely focused. "I also received a notification from my security team at the Highland Park gatehouse."
My chest tightened. "You have security at Chase’s gatehouse?"
"I have eyes where I require them, Mrs. Whitaker," he replied calmly. "Especially when I am evaluating an investment. Where are you currently?"
"I’m... I’m on the highway. Driving."
"You are driving in a severe thunderstorm with a split lip and three garments in a garbage bag," Matteo said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact that made me realize just how thoroughly I was being watched—or perhaps, how thoroughly he managed his environment. "Exit at Ohio Street. Drive to the private entrance of the Grand Hyatt on Michigan Avenue. My valet is waiting for your vehicle."
"Mr. DeSantis, I don't think that’s a good idea," I stammered, touching my swollen lip with two cold fingers. "Chase has photographs. He thinks—"
"I know what Chase thinks," Matteo interrupted, a subtle thread of iron entering his tone. "Chase Whitaker is a small man who believes that striking a woman makes him larger. He is mistaken. I do not like my name used as a cheap pretext for cowardice. Come to the hotel, Vivian."
He used my first name for the first time. It sounded different coming from him—not rushed or possessive like Chase said it, but heavy, deliberate, as if he were taking ownership of the syllables.
"I have nowhere else to go," I whispered before I could stop myself.
"I know," he said softly. "That is why I called. Ohio Street. Ten minutes."
The line went dead.
I merged back onto the highway, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Ten minutes later, I turned off the dark expressway onto the gleaming asphalt of Ohio Street, winding through the canyons of stone and glass until I saw the brass-and-marbled canopy of the Grand Hyatt.
A tall man in a navy trench coat and a black brimmed cap stood under the awning despite the pouring rain. As soon as my sedan rolled to a stop, he stepped forward, opened my driver's side door, and held a large black umbrella over my head.
"Mrs. Whitaker?" the valet asked respectfully. "Mr. DeSantis is expecting you in the penthouse suit."
He offered me his arm. I took it, my wet shoes squeaking against the pristine granite of the private valet foyer. He took my keys, retrieved the black plastic trash bag from the passenger seat without a single flicker of judgment on his face, and gestured toward a private elevator tucked behind a brass pillar.
The elevator required no button press. The doors closed, and the cab rose silently, swiftly, bypassing forty floors in a smooth, breathless surge.
When the brass doors slid open, I stepped directly into a foyer lined with dark walnut paneling, soft cream wool rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-streaked expanse of Lake Michigan.
Standing near a grand stone fireplace at the far end of the room was Matteo DeSantis.
He wore a tailored charcoal suit without a tie, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. He was taller than he had seemed in his office six weeks ago—broad-shouldered, with sharp, angular features, dark silver-threaded hair cut short at the sides, and pale gray eyes that seemed to absorb every detail of the room in a single glance.
He held a crystal glass with two fingers, a amber splash of scotch resting at the bottom.
When he saw me standing near the elevator, my sweater dripping water onto his pristine rug, his eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze moved slowly from my soaked hair down to my face, locking onto my split, swollen lip.
The atmosphere in the penthouse instantly dropped five degrees.
Matteo set his glass down on a side table with a quiet, deliberate clink.
"He struck you," Matteo said softly.
It wasn't a question.
I swallowed hard, my hands clutching my leather bag against my ribs. "He... he lost his temper."
Matteo walked across the room toward me. His movements were fluid, unhurried, carrying the implicit threat of a predator that had never known fear. He stopped two feet away from me. Up close, he smelled of cedarwood, expensive rain-drenched wool, and a faint hint of tobacco.
He raised his right hand. For a terrifying second, I flinched, pulling my head back.
Matteo froze. His gray eyes flickered with a deep, dark shadow, but his hand remained motionless in the air, open, palm up, offering rather than taking.
"I do not harm women, Vivian," he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet it was almost a whisper. "Ever."
Slowly, gently, his thumb brushed the clear, uninjured skin of my jaw, tilting my head slightly upward so he could examine the cut on my lip under the warm light of the chandelier.
"He used a right hook," Matteo murmured, analyzing the injury with cold, technical precision. "He was wearing a ring."
"His championship ring from three years ago," I breathed, my eyes locked on his.
Matteo’s thumb lingered on my jaw for a fraction of a second before he drew his hand back, sliding it into his trouser pocket.
"Julian," Matteo called out without turning around.
A slender, silver-haired man in a dark suit emerged from a side hallway carrying a leather medical kit and a warm, dry cashmere blanket.
"Take Mrs. Whitaker to the master bedroom," Matteo commanded softly. "Clean the wound. Apply an antiseptic bond. Ensure she has a warm bath and dry clothes."
"Right away, sir," the older man said, holding out the blanket for me.
I looked back at Matteo. "Why are you doing this? You barely know me."
Matteo looked down at me, those pale gray eyes unreadable, vast as the dark lake outside the window.
"You brought me a business proposal six weeks ago, Vivian," he said. "You presented me with eighty pages of telemetry, corporate projections, and risk analysis. It was the most brilliant operational breakdown I have seen in ten years."
"That was for Chase’s team," I said.
"No," Matteo replied, his lip curling into a faint, dangerous half-smile. "Chase Whitaker didn't write a single word of those papers. You did. You were the brain behind a mediocre driver who thinks he is a king."
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He stepped closer, leaning down so his words were meant for my ears alone.
"Chase Whitaker made two catastrophic mistakes tonight, Vivian," Matteo whispered. "The first was laying a hand on you. The second was letting you leave his house alive with everything you know."
