Chapter 2: The Warmth of the Predator
Marco DeLuca stood in the doorway of the office, his expensive silk tie slightly loosened, a half-empty glass of top-shelf scotch in his hand. He looked down at my desk, his sharp eyes taking in the neat stacks of paper, the glowing monitor, and the half-eaten protein bar I’d kept in my drawer for emergencies.
“Mr. Moretti left these notes,” I said, my voice sounding thin even to my own ears. I offered a polite, professional smile—the kind I had practiced in the mirror for two years until it became second nature. “He wanted them handled before the new year. I didn't want him to walk into an unorganized office on January second.”
Marco sighed, stepping into the room. The scent of high-end cologne and expensive tobacco followed him. He wasn't a cruel man—not to me, at least—but he was a part of Dominic’s world, which meant he possessed a casual disregard for the lives of normal people.
“Emma, it’s New Year’s Eve,” Marco said, shaking his head. “The boss is upstairs with the governor and three federal judges who are currently pretending they don't know where their campaign funds come from. He’s not checking his desk tonight. Go home. Go drink some cheap champagne with that roommate of yours.”
“I just have two more files to log into the database, Mr. DeLuca,” I replied, my fingers already flying across the keyboard. “It will take me twenty minutes, max.”
“Suit yourself,” Marco murmured, draining his glass. He turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. “Just make sure you use the back exit when you leave. The front lobby is a circus right now. Some of the younger associates from the South Side are... let’s say they’ve had too much of the family reserve. You shouldn't be walking through them alone.”
“I understand. Thank you, sir.”
I watched him go, his shadow disappearing down the long, wood-paneled corridor. The building fell back into its strange, split-level reality: silence on the executive floor, and a muffled, thumping bass from the penthouse forty stories above.
It took me longer than twenty minutes. The database crashed at 10:15, a glitch in the security encryption that required a manual reset. By the time the screen finally flashed green, my watch read 11:10 p.m. My head throbbed from the glare of the monitor, and my stomach was a tight, empty knot.
I packed my bag, pulled my thin wool coat over my shoulders, and stepped out into the hallway. The air inside the tower always felt artificially perfect—climate-controlled to exactly sixty-eight degrees to protect the rare oil paintings Dominic collected. I had no idea what was waiting for me outside.
When I reached the ground floor, I avoided the grand marble lobby as Marco had suggested. I headed instead for the side exit—a heavy metal security door that opened into the narrow alleyway between Moretti Tower and the old brick bank next door. It was a route used by couriers and night-shift maintenance workers.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind me, the Chicago winter hit me like a physical blow.
The wind coming off Lake Michigan was a living thing, a howling beast that trapped itself between the high-rise buildings and whipped through the alley with terrifying force. It instantly sliced through my coat, freezing the fabric against my skin. The temperature had plummeted to ten below zero, but with the wind chill, it felt like thirty below.
I gasped, the frozen air burning my lungs. I reached into my pockets for my gloves, only to realize with a sickening jolt that I had left them on my desk.
“It’s just three blocks to the Red Line,” I muttered to myself, my teeth already chattering as I began to trudge through the deep snow that had accumulated in the alley. “Just three blocks. Walk fast.”
But the alley wasn't cleared. The snow was knee-deep in places, a thick, white quicksand that sucked at my boots. Halfway down the block, the wind gave a sudden, violent surge, slamming a heavy iron dumpster clear across the asphalt. I jumped back to avoid it, my heel catching on a hidden patch of black ice beneath the snow.
My feet went out from under me.
I hit the ground hard, my hip striking the brick wall of the bank before I slid into the deep drift beside the dumpster. My bag flew out of my hand, its contents scattering into the darkness.
For a moment, the pain in my hip kept me still. I tried to push myself up, but my hands—bare and exposed—sank into the freezing crust of the snow. Within seconds, the cold turned from a sharp sting into a dull, throbbing ache, and then into nothing at all.
Get up, Emma, I told myself. You have to get up.
But my limbs felt heavy, filled with sand instead of blood. The wind seemed to die down, replaced by a strange, heavy quiet. The snow falling around me didn't look like ice anymore; it looked like soft, white feathers, drifting down to cover me like a blanket.
The heat came next. It was the most beautiful, terrifying sensation I had ever experienced. A deep, radiant warmth blossomed in my chest, spreading down my arms and legs. I felt like I was sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, wrapped in wool. My brain, starved of warmth, told me that everything was fine. That I was safe.
Just a small rest, the voice in my head whispered. Just until midnight.
May you like
I leaned my head back against the frozen brick, my eyes fluttering shut. I could hear the distant, muffled sound of car horns on Michigan Avenue, the faint echo of a jazz trumpet from the penthouse far above.
Then, the darkness took me.
