Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Cage
The sun hadn't even cleared the Chicago skyline when Paul barged into the study, halting dead in his tracks. His eyes darted from the blood-stained sofa to Victor standing fully dressed in a fresh black suit, and finally to me, clutching my cleaning bucket like a lifeline.
"Boss," Paul said cautiously, his hand hovering near his own weapon. "We have a problem with the North Side shipment. And... why is the girl still here?"
"Elena is getting a promotion," Victor replied smoothly, pouring himself a finger of neat bourbon without spilling a drop. He didn't look at me, but the sheer weight of his presence commanded every molecule of air in the room. "She’s moving to the master wing. Permanently."
Paul’s jaw dropped. "Sir? She’s a maid. She doesn't have clearance for—"
"She slept on my chest for four hours and didn't try to slit my throat," Victor cut in, his voice dropping an octave into a tone that brooked zero argument. "In my world, that makes her the most trustworthy person in this zip code. Get her a real room. And bring me the ledger on Liam's casino accounts."
Before I could protest, Paul grabbed my elbow, his grip firm but strangely lacking its usual hostility. He hauled me out of the study and down a labyrinth of mahogany-paneled corridors toward the service wing.
"You have no idea what you’ve just done," Paul muttered as we walked.
"I didn't do anything!" I hissed, tripping over my own sneakers. "I fell asleep! It was an accident! He’s going to kill me or use me as leverage against Liam!"
"Victor Hayes doesn't keep leverage, Elena. He keeps property," Paul corrected grimly, shoving open a heavy oak door to reveal a surprisingly spacious guest suite overlooking Lake Michigan. "And right now, it looks like he’s decided you belong to him."
By noon, my life had completely disintegrated.
My cleaning cart was gone. My frayed uniform was replaced by a closet full of minimalist, high-end designer clothes that fit my frame with terrifying precision. And when I tried to sneak down to the industrial laundry room to finish my chores, two of Victor’s armed guards blocked the staircase.
"Orders from the boss," the larger one grunted, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "You rest. Or he feeds us to the dogs."
Trapped in a gilded cage, I spent the afternoon pacing the Persian rug of my new room, my phone buzzing incessantly in my pocket. It was Liam. Three text messages, followed by a frantic voicemail.
“Elena, please pick up. Some guys in suits just cleared my entire apartment. They said my debt has been restructured under new management. What did you do? Elena, call me!”
My blood ran cold. I dialed his number instantly, but it went straight to voicemail.
May you like
“The subscriber you have dialed is no longer in service.”
Panic clawed up my throat. I threw open the bedroom door, bolting down the grand staircase toward the West Wing, determined to demand answers from the devil himself.
