Page 48 of The CEO

The second shot follows, and I see Damien’s jaw tighten—not with tension, but with something that resembles pleasure.

“This is justice,” Damien whispers just loud enough for me to hear as he fires the third and final shot into Kurt’s heart.

Kurt’s body jolts with each impact, his eyes and mouth frozen wide as his final breath rattles from his lungs. But Damien doesn’t look away, not once, his gaze locked on Kurt’s, watching intently as the light fades from his eyes, as if drinking in the moment life becomes death.

Only when Kurt’s eyes go completely vacant does Damien stand, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he unscrews the silencer with the same careful precision he attached it.

Then, as if I didn’t just watch him murder a man in cold blood, he puts the gun back into his suit, grabs my arm, and leads me toward his waiting Bentley.

“Are you hurt?” Damien’s voice sounds distant, like I’m underwater and he’s calling to me from the surface.

I can’t speak. Can’t move. My body is frozen, my mind replaying those three muffled shots on an endless loop. The way Kurt’s body jerked with each impact. The way his eyes went vacant.

“Eve.” Damien’s hand grips my elbow, steadying me as he guides me toward the car. “We need to leave. Now.”

I let him lead me, my legs moving mechanically. The leather seat is cool against my skin as I slide in, and the door closes with a solid thud that makes me flinch. I stare straight ahead as Damien walks around to the driver’s side, his movements calm and deliberate like he hasn’t just killed a man in an alley.

The drive is silent. I focus on the Chicago lights blurring past my window, unable to look at him. The smell of blood still fills my nostrils, though there’s no trace of it in his immaculate car. I glance down at my legs, noticing for the first time the dark spatters on my pants and shoes. Kurt’s blood. My stomach lurches.

My hands won’t stop shaking. I tuck them between my knees, squeezing tightly, as if I might contain the tremors by force.

“We should call the police,” I finally whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them.

Damien’s eyes remain fixed on the road. “That would be unwise.”

“He attacked me,” I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. “It was self-defense. I shot him first.”

“And who do you think they’ll believe? The disgraced ex-cop with friends still on the force, or the journalist who’s been digging into things she shouldn’t?”

I swallow hard, knowing he’s right but unwilling to admit it. My father’s voice plays in my head:“The system works, Eve. Maybe not perfectly, but it’s all we have. Without it, we’re just animals.”

My father believed that. I used to believe it too.

I slide my hand into my pocket, feeling for my phone. With my fingers trembling, I navigate to the emergency call button and lower the phone between the seat and the door, the screen facing away from Damien.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says, eyes still on the road.

I freeze. “Why not?”

“Because they won’t help you.” His voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “Even if you could convince them it was self-defense, which you couldn’t, there would be questions. About why you had my gun. About why I was there. About what you’ve been investigating.”

“But—”

“Kurt Ivy was a police officer. His friends would make sure those questions led to you in a cell, not to justice.” He glances at me briefly. “Is that what you want?”

I stare at him, letting his words sink in. “How did you know I was there?”

“I told you, you’re under my protection.”

“You’re having me followed.” It’s not a question.

“Yes.”

The admission should anger me. Instead, relief washes over me at the thought that he was there, and that realization terrifies me more than the blood on my shoes and hands.

We pull up to Eden, the Gothic silhouette looming dark against the night sky. Damien leads me inside, through the grand entrance hall and into a study I haven’t seen before. A fire crackles in the ornate fireplace, casting dancing shadows across a large collection of books that adorns polished wood shelves.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a plush sofa. He moves to a small bar, pouring whiskey into two crystal glasses.

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