Chapter 1 - The Mark of a Debt
Lorenzo’s thumb hovered just millimeters above the purple blooming across Daisy’s skin. The temperature in the room plummeted, not because the fire had died, but because the man kneeling before her had turned to absolute stone. The smooth, handsome lines of his face hardened into something archaic, ancient, and terrifyingly cold.
"Who touched you?" he asked.
The question wasn't loud. It was a gravelly whisper, vibrating with an undercurrent of violence that made the hairs on Daisy’s arms stand up.
"It was just... some men outside the shop," Daisy stammered, trying to pull her foot back, but his hand closed around her calf. His grip was firm, unyielding, yet remarkably careful not to aggravate her injury. "They were waiting for me when I locked up. They said my grandfather owed them money. A lot of money. They wanted the deed to Sartoria Mitchell."
"Name," Lorenzo commanded, his storm-colored eyes rising to lock onto hers.
"I don't know their names," she whispered, a tear finally betraying her, cutting a clean path through the dust and sweat on her cheek. "The leader... the one who grabbed my leg when I tried to run... the others called him Mick. Mick Vance. He said if I didn't bring the deed to the warehouse on 14th Street by midnight, they’d burn the shop down with me inside it."
Lorenzo stared at her for five long seconds. Daisy felt exposed under that gaze—flushed, full-figured, messy, and thoroughly broken in a room that demanded absolute perfection. She expected him to dismiss her. She expected him to tell her that her family's petty neighborhood debts were not his concern. He was Lorenzo Bianco; he dealt in international logistics and political empires, not South Side turf extortion.
Instead, Lorenzo stood up. He walked to the antique desk, picked up a crystal decanter, and poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a glass. He walked back and handed it to her.
"Drink," he said.
Daisy took the glass with trembling fingers and swallowed a mouthful. It burned beautifully, spreading a false but welcome warmth through her chest.
Lorenzo reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped a single speed-dial code. He didn't wait for a greeting. "Marco. Bring the medical kit to the study. Then find out who Mick Vance is working for on the South Side. I want a name, an address, and his current location within ten minutes."
He ended the call and looked back at Daisy, who was clutching her grandfather’s canvas bag against her emerald dress like a shield.
"Mr. Bianco, I can leave," Daisy said quickly, her voice thick with shame. "I’ve ruined your evening. You hired me to tailor your winter suits, not to listen to my problems. If you could just let me call a cab, I'll—"
"You came to my house late, bleeding, and hunted," Lorenzo interrupted, stepping closer until his broad silhouette blocked out the light of the fire. "In Chicago, Miss Mitchell, people do not bring their violence to my doorstep unless they want me to finish it. You are a Mitchell. Your grandfather made my father's burial suit. He was a man of honor. He never missed a stitch."
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He sat down on the leather ottoman directly across from her, his long legs nearly touching hers.
"The debt is no longer yours," Lorenzo murmured, his voice smooth as silk and heavy as iron. "Mick Vance didn't just assault a tailor tonight. He assaulted my tailor. And in this city, nobody survives a mistake like that."
