Chapter 2 - The Red Light Confession
The Escalade glided past the abandoned grain silos lining the Chicago River, their concrete hulls rising like ancient monoliths against the stormy sky. Bee shifted nervously, her maternal instincts kicking into high gear. She had lived in the city long enough to know the difference between an efficient cabbie finding a back alley and an intentional deviation into nowhere. She reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against her phone. The battery icon blinked red—three percent remaining.
""I don't see any roadwork signs,"" she stated, her voice losing its playful banter and hardening into the razor-sharp tone she used when confronting corporate CFOs who attempted to hide slush funds under discretionary travel. ""Pull over, please. I’ll walk from here.""
""The rain hasn't stopped, Beatrice,"" Roman said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He hit the central control lock; a distinct, heavy click echoed through the doors. ""And walking around Cermak at midnight with two million dollars worth of cartel leverage in your tote bag is an invitation to suicide.""
Bee froze. The air left her lungs in a sharp gasp. ""Two million? I said two hundred thousand. Tommy owes two hundred thousand.""
Roman looked at her squarely in the rearview mirror. In the green wash of the dashboard lights, his features looked carved out of dark granite—predatory, disciplined, and entirely devoid of the mild-mannered gig-worker persona he had briefly worn. ""Two hundred thousand was his original marker at the Velvet Lounge sportsbook. He doubled it trying to chase his losses on European football. Then he added a penalty fee when he accessed the private office safe. With interest and liquidated damages, the principal balance sits at two million, one hundred and forty thousand dollars.""
Bee felt her blood run ice-cold. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her gaze dropped to his hands—large, heavily calloused, bearing a gold signet ring on the right pinky finger stamped with an ornate, roaring wolf entwined in ivy.
The Cavali crest.
The stories Tommy had babbled through his tears on her kitchen floor suddenly snapped into terrifying focus. He has cold gray eyes, Bee. He doesn't raise his voice. He wears bespoke suits and drives a customized tank. If you see the wolf ring, you run.
""You're not an app driver,"" she whispered, her voice barely a thread in the sealed cabin.
""I never claimed to be,"" Roman replied evenly. He signaled and brought the vehicle to a smooth stop underneath the rusted iron framework of an elevated train line. The rain drummed overhead like machine-gun fire. He shifted into park, unbuckled his seatbelt, and turned around fully to face her. Up close, the sheer physical mass of him was suffocating. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal wool coat over a crisp black shirt, without a tie, revealing a sliver of silver chain against olive skin. A faint, jagged scar traced the line of his left cheekbone down to the edge of his dark stubble.
""You're Roman Cavali,"" she said, pressing her back against the rear passenger door, her hands clutching the straps of her bag until her knuckles turned chalk-white.
""I am,"" he said. ""And you, Miss Gallagher, are currently trespassing in my personal vehicle, in possession of stolen property, and actively threatening me with federal prosecution.""
Bee swallowed hard, fighting against the dizzying wave of panic threatening to black out her vision. Fourteen hours of parsing balance sheets had left her running on pure adrenaline and stale coffee, but her stubborn survival instinct refused to bow. She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and met his icy gray eyes with an intensity that clearly surprised him.
""Technically,"" she countered, her voice shaking only slightly, ""you invited me to sit down by turning on the seat warmers. And second, you haven't shot me yet, which means you either need the encryption key to that drive, or you realize that Tommy being alive is the only thing keeping your shell companies out of the Wall Street Journal.""
A slow, dangerous smile curved Roman’s lips. It wasn't the cruel sneer she expected from a mob boss; it was the look of a predator who had unexpectedly encountered prey that carried venom. ""You're remarkably composed for someone sitting three feet from a man who buries people for a living.""
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""I deal with corporate vice presidents who rob pension funds and fire five thousand people via email without blinking,"" Bee fired back, breathing fast. ""You're just the street-level version with better tailoring. What are you going to do with my brother?""
""That depends entirely on what happens in the next fifteen minutes,"" Roman said, turning back toward the windshield as his encrypted phone began to vibrate violently against the dashboard.
