Page 46 of The CEO

“Didhesend you?” I challenge, refusing to be intimidated despite the mounting anxiety in my chest.

“Who? Reeves?” He rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath. “That stupid fuck couldn’t find his asshole from his armpit.”

Detective Reeves? What does he have to do with this?Before I can correct him, he continues.

“Chicago has rules—unwritten ones that matter more than whatever you think you learned in journalism school.” He leans closer, his voice dropping further. “But maybe you haven’t learned those rules. Maybe youshouldlearn them—the hard way.”

“You know,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m getting a little tired of veiled threats from men. If you have something to say, James, just say it.”

He eyes me slowly, his gaze dropping down my body then back up with a smirk that sends an uncomfortable shiver down my spine. “Ya know, for someone who writes about death so often, you seem remarkably unconcerned about becoming the subject of your own profession.”

The threat is explicit now. Whoever this man represents, they clearly want me to stop investigating, but I’m not sure what or who, because if Damien had sent this man, I’d know it. In fact, I’m certain that at this point, Damien wouldn’t send someone. He’d deliver any message directly to me.

“And it’s not a threat.” He shrugs, swallowing down the last of his whiskey. “Consider it an education. Some stories aren’t worth pursuing, no matter how interesting they might seem to you . . . orunjust.”

I reach inside my purse to pull out my wallet when my hand lands directly on the gun. Panic grips me. I had completely forgotten I’d brought it, but just as quickly, it fades into comfort. Maybe Damien is right: looking into him ruffles more feathers than I realized.

I toss a few bills on the counter, grabbing my things and walking out of the bar before James can say anything further to me. I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes boring into me. It’s only after I’m out of the bar that the full impact of the encounter hits me. I’ve now been threatened by someone who isn’t Damien. Which means he either sent him to warn me, or his organization is more fragmented than it appears from the outside.

Neither option makes me feel particularly safe, but I keep my hand on the cold handle of the gun while I make the walk back to my apartment. Darkness has completely settled over the city, and I anxiously look over my shoulder as I take a left onto a street that has little activity or streetlights, but it’s the quickest way home.

I check my phone, debating whether I should call someone—anyone—to calm my nerves. But there isn’t anyone. Ingrid would only tell me I’m being paranoid, and I can’t exactly explain to her in ten seconds what I’ve been investigating. The whiskey sits uneasily in my stomach, anxiety overriding its calming effects.

That’s when I hear it: the squeaky hinge of the bar door, letting me know someone walked out shortly after me.

It’s fine . . . a good thing. It means there are others out on the sidewalk this late.

But it’s not fine, because a few seconds later, the sound of someone walking behind me—their feet starting to rapidly pick up the pace—sends my anxiety into overdrive.I’m almost halfway home; just another two blocks, I tell myself, too scared now to look back.

Panic rises in my throat as I quicken my steps, mentally cataloging my options. The area around me is a mix of homes and shops that are closed at this hour, but there are no lights on—nothing to reassure me that someone might be home, watching. There’s no police station. No security. Just me . . . and the gun my hand is now wrapped around.

I’m a second away from sprinting the final stretch to my building when a hand grabs the back of my shirt, dragging me into a dark alley.

“Help!” I scream, but a hand clamps around my mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, you dumb bitch,” the man grits out, shoving me hard against the brick wall. I lift my arm to stop my head from hitting the wall, and my knees scrape against it as I tumble to the ground.

“Who are y?—”

“Shut up!” he barks again, pulling a knife from his pocket and pointing it down toward me. “You don’t get to talk anymore. You don’t get to ruin people’s lives!” He gestures at me with the knife, spit flying from his mouth as he snarls at me.

I blink a few times, and his face comes into focus. For the first time, I recognize him.

Oh my God. His name isn’t James. It’s Kurt Ivy—the man who murdered Tia Fellows. The man I begged the police to look into, but they wouldn’t . . . because he was one of them.

“I didn’t ruin your life,” I choke out around tears I didn’t even realize were tumbling down my cheeks. “You killed her.Youruined your life!” The gun remains tightly in my grip inside my purse.

“She was a fucking cunt who deserved it! She was a cheating fucking whore!”

“But you—you didn’t even get charged, so how did I ruin your life?” I try to keep him talking, worried that if I don’t, he’s going to lunge at me and it will all be over.

He crouches down beside me, coming so close I can now smell his whiskey-soaked breath. He sways slightly, and his eyes are red and blurry. He’s beyond drunk.

“They kicked me off the force, then I lost my house.” He slurs the words. “She meant nothing, you know that? She was just a lowlife hooker and had the audacity to tell me she’d report me if I didn’t pay her for a sloppy-ass blow job!”

I glance around, hoping and praying someone else from the bar will leave and walk by, but it’s no use. The dumpster he’s shoved me behind blocks any view of us.

“But you . . . you wouldn’t let it go. You—” The tip of the knife is inches from my face, and I swallow hard, pressing the back of my head into the wall behind me to try to get away from him. He stares at me for several more seconds, his eyes dropping down to where my blouse is unbuttoned slightly. He sticks the tip of the knife between the folds of the blouse. “Maybe I’ll have a little fun with you first though.”

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