Page 62 of The CEO

My gaze falls on the gun box still sitting on my coffee table where I left it—the weapon that links me to murder, and binds me to Damien through shared violence. I should be horrified by it, should want it gone from my home, my life. Instead, I find myself reaching for it.

A plan begins to form in my mind, reckless and potentially suicidal, but impossible to dismiss once it takes root. If I want to understand who Damien Knox truly is, and what The Shadows actually entails, I need to witness it firsthand.

I’ll follow him tonight.

The thought should terrify me more than it does. I’m considering tailing a man who kills with clinical precision, who has resources and power beyond anything I can imagine. But the journalist in me won’t back down, and something darker, something I’m not ready to fully acknowledge, pushes me forward.

I spend the day preparing—charging my camera, downloading a police scanner app to my phone, laying out dark clothes that won’t attract attention. I should be exhausted after my sleepless night, but adrenaline keeps me alert, focused.

As evening approaches, I shower and dress in black jeans, a dark sweater, and comfortable boots. I tie my hair back, the practical motions helping to steady my nerves. I tuck the gun into my purse, telling myself it’s just for protection, though the weight of it feels like a commitment to something I don’t fully understand.

I force myself to eat a small meal, knowing I’ll need my strength, then check the time: 7:30 p.m. According to my research, Damien has a board meeting scheduled until 8. If I position myself outside Knox Tower now, I should be able to follow him when he leaves.

The rational part of my brain screams at me to stop, to reconsider, to call that detective who warned me away from this investigation. But rationality abandoned me the moment I pulled that trigger in the alley. Now I’m operating on something more primal—a need to know the truth, no matter how dark it might be.

I grab my camera, my phone, and my keys, checking my appearance one last time in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks different somehow—her eyes harder, her expression more determined. I barely recognize myself.

Outside, the night air is crisp with an early autumn chill. I hail a cab, giving the driver an address a block away from Knox Tower. My heart pounds in my chest as we approach the gleaming skyscraper, its upper floors illuminated against the night sky like a beacon of power and wealth.

“This is fine,” I tell the driver, handing over cash and exiting half a block before we reach my stated destination.

I find a shadowy spot across from the underground parking garage where Damien’s Bentley will likely emerge. The waiting is the hardest part, and my mind races with second thoughts and scenarios where this could go terribly wrong. What if he catches me? What if whatever I witness is so horrific, I can’t handle it?

What if I discover the darkest parts of Damien Knox and find myself drawn to them even more?

I push the thought away, focusing on my breath, on the steady flow of late-night traffic, on anything but the growing fear mixed with anticipation in my gut.

At 8:37 p.m., the sleek black Bentley emerges from the garage. I catch a glimpse of his driver, but the back windows are tinted. I wait until they’re a block away before flagging down another cab, instructing the driver to follow the Bentley at a distance.

“You want me to follow that car? Like in the movies?” The driver gives me a skeptical look.

“Just do it,” I say, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill. “And I’ll double this if you don’t ask questions.”

He takes the money with a shrug, pulling into traffic behind the Bentley. “Lady, your business is your business.”

We follow them through downtown Chicago, maintaining enough distance to avoid suspicion. My palms grow sweaty as we weave through the city streets, each turn taking us further from the glittering skyscrapers and deeper into neighborhoods where the lights grow dimmer and the buildings more decrepit.

At one point, we hit a red light just as the Bentley makes a sharp right turn. I curse under my breath, urging the driver to hurry when the light changes. By the time we make the turn, the sleek black car is nowhere in sight.

“Faster!” I urge, desperately scanning the street.

“I can’t run lights, lady,” the driver protests, but speeds up slightly.

Just when I think we’ve lost them, I spot the distinctive taillights turning down a side street. Relief washes over me, quickly followed by renewed tension. We’re heading into an industrial area near the river, where warehouses loom on either side like silent sentinels.

The first drops of rain begin to fall, speckling the windshield. Within moments, it turns into a steady downpour—the kind of heavy autumn rain that transforms the city into a gothic nightmare of gleaming wet pavement and deep shadows. The rhythmic swish of the wipers matches my accelerating heartbeat.

“Pull over,” I say as the Bentley slows in front of a warehouse about a block ahead of us. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”

“In this neighborhood?” The driver looks wary. “With this weather?”

I hand him another hundred. “Twenty minutes, tops.”

He pockets the money with a shrug. “It’s your funeral.”

The words send a chill down my spine as I step into the rain. It soaks through my clothes almost instantly, plastering my hair to my scalp. I stick to the shadows, moving along building edges, grateful for the storm that’s providing both cover and an excuse for my head-down, hurried posture.

The Bentley has stopped outside a nondescript warehouse. Its exterior may be weathered, but its sophisticated security cameras are visible if you know what to look for. I duck behind a dumpster across the street, water pooling around my boots as I watch Damien emerge from the car.

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