Chapter 2 - The Dancer from the South Side
Forty blocks away, in a dimly lit backstage dressing room behind a crowded River North jazz club, Maya Lin was scrubbing greasepaint off her collarbone with a rough paper towel.
At twenty-four, Maya had learned three things about Chicago: rent was always higher than you expected, men with expensive cars were never worth the trouble, and the only person you could rely on was yourself. For two years, she had danced four nights a week at The Velvet Note to pay off her mother’s mounting medical debts and keep her younger brother enrolled in community college.
She had thought she hit rock bottom two nights ago when a slick-haired man in a tailored suit—a man who introduced himself as an attorney representing a high-end private club—approached her table with an offer that sounded too easy to be true.
“Go to the Gold Coast penthouse. Sit with Luca Vale for twenty minutes. Cry, panic, leave your shoe behind, and hand him this envelope on your way out. Five thousand dollars cash, up front.”
Maya had needed the money badly enough to say yes. Her brother’s tuition was due, and the hospital was threatening to cut off her mother’s physical therapy.
She had gone to the penthouse. She had played her part. She had looked into Luca Vale’s broad, scarred face—a face carved from stone and haunted by a loneliness so profound it had made her breath catch in her throat—and she had read her lines.
“I’m sorry. I could get hurt.”
She had expected an arrogant mafia boss to curse, or slam a door, or laugh it off. Instead, she had seen something in his gray eyes that had terrified her more than any threat: genuine, crushing despair.
When Maya walked out into the hallway and the elevator doors closed, her stomach had turned to ice. She had gone straight to a 24-hour diner, pulled the crisp stack of hundred-dollar bills from her coat pocket, and stared at them until her hands shook.
She couldn't keep the money. The look in that man’s eyes had followed her all the way back to her cramped South Side apartment. It was the look of a man being slowly poisoned by people he trusted.
So she had taken five thousand dollars in cash, stuffed it back into the white envelope, written a confession on a napkin, and slipped it under the marble table before slipping out of the penthouse.
Now, changing into her heavy wool coat before walking out into the freezing Chicago alleyway, Maya heard a sharp knock on her dressing room door.
“Maya? Front desk says you have a visitor,” the club manager called out.
Maya frowned, checking her watch. It was past midnight. “Tell them I’m gone for the night.”
“He says his name is Marcus. And he’s not leaving until you talk to him.”
Maya froze. The name dropped into the room like lead. Marcus. The chief of security for Luca Vale.
Before she could turn toward the back window, the dressing room door clicked open. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark trench coat stepped inside, blocking the exit. He didn't look threatening, but he had the unmistakable posture of a man who carried a concealed weapon and knew how to empty a magazine before anyone in the room could blink.
“Maya Lin?” Marcus asked, his voice low and level.
Maya swallowed hard, keeping her hands steady inside her coat pockets. “You have the wrong person.”
“The concierge at your apartment building identified your photo, and your Toyota Camry is parked out in the alley with a dented rear bumper,” Marcus said mildly, stepping closer. “Mr. Vale would like a word with you.”
“I don't have anything to say to Mr. Vale,” Maya said, her chin lifting defiantly even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “I left the envelope. I gave the money back. I didn't hurt him.”
“He knows you gave the money back,” Marcus replied. “That’s the only reason you’re currently breathing fresh air instead of sleeping at the bottom of Lake Michigan. Now, are you going to walk out to the car yourself, or do I need to carry you?”
May you like
Maya stared at him for a long, tense moment. She knew the reputation of the Vale syndicate. She knew that crossing Luca Vale was a death sentence. But she also knew that running was useless.
“Fine,” she muttered, grabbing her bag. “Lead the way.”
