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I tell myself it's fine.

Outside, Chicago pushes gray morning light through the bakery windows and the couple in the corner booth leans into each other, laughing softly over the last bite of blondie.

I only wish the gnawing feeling in my gut that something bad is about to happen would go away.

CHAPTER 5

VIVIENNE

Icheck my lipstick in the visor mirror and press my lips together once. Crimson. Flawless. The rest of me matches. Charcoal Valentino suit, tailored to the millimeter. Hair swept into a low chignon, not a single strand loose. Diamond studs, small enough to read as taste rather than wealth. Presentation has always been my sharpest weapon, especially in rooms where men mistake beauty for weakness.

"We've arrived, Mrs. Castellano."

My driver opens the door. The sub-basement parking beneath Club Genesis stretches wide and dim, concrete pillars fading into strips of fluorescent light. The air bites with the chill of underground concrete and exhaust fumes. Three vehicles occupy the far row near the elevator bank. A black sedan, a silver Bentley, and a matte-gray SUV that screams government money or someone trying too hard to be invisible.

"Stay with the car. This won't take long."

My heels strike the polished floor and the echo carries across the structure like a metronome.

The elevator is waiting. I press my thumb to the biometric panel and the doors part without a sound. Inside, the cab is polished steel and brushed bronze, warm light overhead, spotless. I select the third floor and the elevator climbs in silence.

Elio brought me here once, years ago, when he still trusted me with pieces of his world. Not this floor. The upper levels, where the champagne costs more than most people's mortgages and the clientele don't use real names. He pointed to the elevator bank and mentioned the lower levels the way someone might mention a locked room in a house you are forbidden to enter. Casually. A warning dressed as an afterthought.

"The third floor is not a place for wives, Vivienne."

Darling Elio. So careful with his boundaries. So confident that the woman who shared his bed and carried his name and tolerated his daughter's cold silences for over a decade would never need to cross them.

He underestimated me the way men always do.

The doors slide open and the silence swallows me whole, pressing in from every direction. Climate-controlled air hums low beneath it, but nothing else breaks through. The quiet is so absolute I can feel the soft tick of my own pulse. Cool air bites against my bare arms. Two scents collide and hang suspended in the stillness. Gunpowder, sharp and metallic. Roses, thick and sweet from large arrangements flanking the reception counter. The combination should clash. Instead it suits this place perfectly, death and luxury sharing a room without apology.

Black carpet stretches in every direction, swallowing light and sound. Overhead, chandeliers drip gold-toned light across dark surfaces, elegant but insufficient. Faces require proximity to read. Shadows cut across everything and everyone.

To my right, a young woman behind a sleek reception desk lifts her gaze. Polished smile, perfect winged eyeliner, hands folded on the dark wood.

"Good evening, Mrs. Castellano. Welcome to Genesis." She slides a leather-bound ledger across the counter. "If you would."

I take the offered pen. The ledger is thick, heavy, filled with entries in various hands. Some bold, some hurried, some careful. I sign my name and then take the offered needle. I prick the pad of my thumb and press the blood beside the wet ink. The pad of my finger comes away stained red.

I wipe the residue with the small cloth the receptionist offers and tuck my hand into my jacket pocket.

"Sapphire is expecting you. Through the lounge and to the left."

The lounge opens beyond the reception area. Low leather sofas arranged around knee-height tables, occupied by men who would look equally comfortable in a holding cell or a combat zone. One has a knife resting across his thigh, the handle worn smooth from years of use. Another watches me over the rim of a glass with eyes that carry things sleep can't erase.

I’m not afraid of death so I stare right back.

Gunpowder clings to their skin and clothing, contributing to the haze that mingles with the roses near reception.

Fucking runners. Elio mentioned them a few times. The muscle Genesis deploys when a contract goes live. They wait here for work the way day laborers wait at a hiring hall, except the labor involves putting people in the ground and the pay runs well into six figures.

I cross the lounge without adjusting my stride. Their eyes track me and I give them nothing. No quickened pace, no averted gaze, no acknowledgment that I am one woman crossing a room of killers in four-inch heels. I have been married to a mafia kingpin for over a decade. Men like these have been in my orbit for a long time. Long enough for me to grow thick skin.

The parlor sits just past the lounge, partitioned by half-walls that offer the illusion of privacy. A horseshoe booth dominates the space, dark wood and leather, with a bank of monitors mounted on the wall behind it. A woman occupies the booth.

Blue eyes raise to meet mine and are striking enough to halt a conversation. She's compact, dressed in all black with her dark hair pulled back from a face that carries more intelligence than this room probably credits her for. A laptop sits open in front of her alongside a stack of folders, two phones, and a crystal glass of water.

Sapphire Constantine. The undertaker.