At 2:13 A.m., She Drank Alone — Unaware The Mafia Boss Had Been Watching Her All Night

## Chapter 4

The air inside the room turned thick, heavy with the suffocating pressure of an impending storm. The jazz music piping through the concealed speakers seemed to fade into a hollow echo, replaced entirely by the thunderous pounding of Meline’s pulse in her ears. She stood frozen against the brass rail of the mahogany bar, her emerald silk slip dress suddenly feeling as flimsy as tissue paper against the crushing weight of the Chicago underworld, and somewhere in the back of her mind, the small, disbelieving part of her that was still an auditor kept trying to calculate the odds, the exits, the math of survival, and finding none of it added up to anything she could use.

The three Vulov Bratva enforcers advanced with the synchronized predatory grace of a wolfpack. Their leader, a towering heavyset brute named Dmitri, whose neck was entirely covered in faded Cyrillic prison tattoos telling a story Meline didn’t want translated, locked his dead, slate-gray eyes on Meline. He didn’t even seem to register the imposing presence of Declan Fitzpatrick standing between them.

To Dmitri, Meline was simply an asset, a walking stock certificate for Hayes Holdings LLC, ready to be liquidated to settle Bradley Carmichael’s catastrophic debts. “Step aside, Irishman,” Dmitri grunted, his thick Russian accent grating against the tense silence of the speakeasy.

His heavy hand rested casually on the lapel of his distressed leather jacket, a clear tell that he was reaching for a concealed weapon. “The girl comes with us. She is Vulov property now. Her fiancé signed the paperwork yesterday afternoon.”

Declan did not move. He stood with a terrifyingly calm posture, his broad shoulders squared, shielding Meline completely from their line of sight. He reached up, casually adjusting the cuffs of his midnight blue bespoke suit, the gold watch on his wrist catching the dim amber light, and for a moment he looked less like a man facing down three armed enforcers than a man mildly inconvenienced by a late delivery.

“I’m afraid there has been a clerical error, Dmitri,” Declan replied, his voice a smooth, lethal purr that sent a shiver down Meline’s spine. “Bradley Carmichael is a dead man breathing. He stole three million dollars from my offshore accounts, routed it through a Cayman Islands trust, and dumped it into the dummy corporation this young woman’s name is attached to. Therefore, the girl is my collateral, not yours.”

Dmitri’s scarred jaw tightened. “Ivan Vulov does not care about your offshore accounts, Fitzpatrick. We are taking the girl. If you want a war over a mid-level accountant, we will give you one.” “A war?” Declan let out a low, dark chuckle that held absolutely no humor. “You brought three men to my bar. That’s not a war. That’s a suicide mission.”

Before Dmitri could draw his weapon, the room exploded into violent motion. Declan moved with a blinding, ferocious speed that defied his massive frame. He didn’t bother drawing the weapon holstered at his ribs. Instead, he grabbed the heavy, half-empty bourbon bottle from the bar and smashed it directly across Dmitri’s face.

The crystal shattered with a sickening crunch, sending a spray of top-shelf amber liquor and blood flying across the polished hardwood floor. Dmitri staggered backward, a guttural roar ripping from his throat as he collapsed against a velvet booth.

The two remaining enforcers clawed frantically at their jackets, pulling out matte black handguns. But Declan’s men were already there. Liam O’Connor materialized from the shadows of the VIP mezzanine, his suppressed submachine gun raised. A rapid, muffled burst of gunfire tore through the speakeasy. The two Russians dropped to the floor instantly, their weapons clattering uselessly against the brass foot rails.

Behind him, two more Fitzpatrick soldiers moved with the practiced efficiency of men who had done this before, one sealing the front entrance while the other pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut against the street outside, cutting the ruined room off from whatever passersby might otherwise have glimpsed through the rain-streaked windows.

The remaining patrons screamed, scrambling frantically for the fire exits, their expensive shoes trampling over discarded martini glasses. Somewhere behind the bar, a champagne bucket overturned, ice scattering across the marble in a bright, absurd counterpoint to the chaos, and Meline would remember that detail for years afterward more clearly than almost anything else — the sheer, senseless normalcy of ice cubes skittering across the floor while men bled out a few feet away.

Meline clamped her hands over her ears, a terrified sob ripping from her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut, dropping to her knees behind the heavy oak bar, praying to wake up from this nightmare. The smell of copper, spilled alcohol, and the sharp acrid sting of cordite filled her nostrils.

Suddenly, a strong, unyielding grip closed around her upper arm. “Open your eyes, Meline. We are leaving,” Declan commanded. His voice was no longer a smooth purr. It was the bark of a hardened general.

She opened her eyes, gasping for air. Declan pulled her effortlessly to her feet. The speakeasy was a war zone — Dmitri groaning on the floor unconscious, while Liam and three other heavily armed Fitzpatrick soldiers secured the perimeter.

“I can’t,” Meline whispered hysterically, her legs giving out. “I can’t go with you. I’m just an auditor. I balance spreadsheets. I don’t belong in this.” Declan’s storm-gray eyes softened for a fraction of a second, an entirely uncharacteristic flicker of empathy passing through his cold exterior. He reached out, his warm, calloused hand gripping her chin, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic register that grounded her spiraling panic. “If I leave you here, the Volkovs will find you before the sun rises over Lake Michigan. They will drag you to a warehouse in Gary, Indiana, and they will torture you until you sign over every asset in that LLC. Then they will put a bullet in the back of your head and dump your body in the river. Bradley sold you to the devil, Meline, but tonight you are with me, and no one touches what is mine. Do you understand?”

The sheer possessive intensity in his words sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. *No one touches what is mine.* She was trading one monster for another. But as she looked at the shattered glass and blood on the floor, she knew Declan Fitzpatrick was the only monster capable of keeping her alive. She gave a small, jerky nod.

“Good girl,” Declan murmured. He stripped off his tailored suit jacket and draped it over her shivering shoulders. The heavy fabric smelled of cedarwood and gunpowder, wrapping her in a strange, terrifying cocoon of safety, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist.