Chapter 2 - THE SILVER BADGE
“That depends on whether we are better liars than I think.”
Dante’s words hung in the quiet of his study, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and aged whiskey. I looked down at the emerald ring on my finger. It caught the firelight, flashing with a brilliant, dangerous green. Hours ago, I had been a delivery girl drowning in debt. Now, I was the most heavily guarded woman in Chicago, wearing a mafia queen’s heirloom.
But a ring is just metal and stone until a performance gives it life.
Dante stepped closer. The warmth radiating from his body was a stark contrast to the cold calculation in his eyes. “My men need to believe this, Mara. If my inner circle doubts the engagement, the Volkovs will smell blood in the water. We start now.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he reached out and pulled me against his chest. One hand slid into my hair, the other rested firmly on my lower back. My breath caught. I expected a harsh, performative kiss, but when his mouth met mine, it was entirely different. It was slow, deliberate, and devastating. The world outside the study—the guns, the Russians, the threats—vanished into the taste of bourbon and the startling gentleness of his touch.
When he finally pulled away, my heart was hammering against my ribs so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
“They believed that,” a voice said from the doorway.
I jumped. Marco, Dante’s towering head of security, stood in the threshold, holding a small cardboard box. He didn't look amused; he looked deadly serious.
Dante didn't flinch. He kept his hand on my waist, grounding me. “What is it, Marco?”
“The package from Brooklyn. Koff’s pawn shop.” Marco stepped forward and placed the box on the mahogany desk. “We raided the safe before the financial crimes unit seized the building. I thought Miss Chen might want this back immediately.”
My throat tightened. I stepped away from Dante and approached the desk. Inside the box lay Victor Koff’s black ledger, filled with the names of the desperate. But resting on top of it was a piece of polished metal.
My father’s silver police badge.
Tears pricked my eyes. I reached out and traced the engraved numbers: 4409. It had been my father’s pride. I had sold it for three thousand dollars just to keep the heat on during his final month of hospice.
“Thank you,” I whispered, looking up at Dante. “You didn't have to do this tonight.”
“I protect what is mine,” Dante said quietly.
I picked up the badge. It was heavier than I remembered. But as I turned it over, my thumb caught on the clasp. The metal pin was bent outward, scratching against the backing. My father had been meticulous about his uniform; he never would have worn a damaged badge. I pressed my nail against the backing plate, and to my shock, it popped open.
There was a hollow space inside.
Hidden within the backing was a tightly folded, faded yellow train ticket.
I pulled it out with trembling fingers. It was a one-way ticket to Montreal, dated exactly two days before my father’s cancer diagnosis. But it wasn't the date that made my blood run cold. It was the name printed on the purchaser line.
Alexei Volkov.
“Mara?” Dante’s voice was sharp. He saw the color drain from my face.
May you like
I looked up at him, the paper shaking in my hand. “Why was the Russian mafia buying my father a train ticket to flee the country right before he got sick?”
Dante froze. His eyes locked onto the ticket. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, his voice suddenly hollow, stripped of all its commanding authority.
