Chapter 3 - The Wolf at the Door
The grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway chimed three times, its deep, resonant gongs vibrating through the floorboards of the master suite.
Enzo hadn't moved from his spot on the floor. He sat listening as Harper quietly finished explaining the architecture of her imprisonment—the locked doors, the falsified medical records explaining away her absences, the isolation her father had enforced under the guise of protecting society’s delicate sensibilities.
Every word she spoke felt like pouring gasoline onto a fire that had been burning inside Enzo since the night Nathan died.
“He’s coming here,” Enzo said suddenly, standing up so fast the antique chair slid back.
Harper looked up, alarmed. “Who?”
“Preston,” Enzo growled, walking toward the tall French windows that overlooked the snow-covered grounds of the estate. “If what you’re saying is true—if your trust fund unlocks next week, and he needs your signature to cover his embezzlement tracks—he isn't going to wait. He thinks he handed you to a monster who will keep you locked away, silent and compliant, until he can force you to sign away the rest of your life.”
Harper rose from the bed, wrapping the heavy blanket around herself like armor. “He’s desperate, Enzo. A desperate man makes mistakes. But he also has connections. Half the judges in Cook County are in his pocket.”
“Let them be in his pocket,” Enzo replied, his phone already out of his pocket, his thumb flying across the screen. He speed-dialed Marcus, his second-in-command and the head of his security detail.
The line connected on the second ring.
“Boss? It’s 3:00 a.m.,” Marcus’s gruff voice came through the speaker.
“Marcus, I want the perimeter doubled. Activate the motion sensors on the north gate,” Enzo ordered, his voice brooking no argument. “And I want a full financial trace executed on Preston Whitcomb’s personal accounts by sunrise. Find every offshore shell company, every secret ledger, and every judge he’s ever bought.”
“Understood, Boss. Is everything—?”
“Don't ask questions, Marcus. Just do it. And if Preston Whitcomb shows his face at my gates tonight, do not let him on the property. Call me the second he arrives.”
Enzo hung up before Marcus could respond. He turned back to face Harper, who was standing near the fireplace, watching him with a mixture of awe and deep-seated apprehension.
“You don't have to protect me,” Harper said quietly. “I’m used to handling him on my own.”
“You are not handling anyone anymore,” Enzo said, stepping closer to her. The distance between them had completely vanished, replaced by an unspoken alliance forged in shared hatred for the same man. “You are my wife now, Harper. In this house, my word is law. And nobody touches what is mine.”
Harper swallowed hard, her eyes searching his face. “Even if it means going to war with the entire Chicago elite?”
May you like
Enzo let out a dark, dangerous laugh.
“Let them come,” he said, his eyes flashing with lethal intent. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to burn their world to the ground anyway. Your father just handed me the match.”
