Chapter One

M y phone ringing stirs me from my slumber. Groaning, I grab my phone. Glancing at the screen, I wince when I realize it's eleven at night. I can't ignore the call, though. It's from a client.

"Hello, Mr. Jones. How can I help you?" I answer, trying to keep the sleep from my voice.

"I need you to come over here now," he barks out.

I swallow hard. "Of course. I will be right there."

He hangs up, not even saying goodbye.

"Asshole," I mumble as I push myself up.

Not that I'm surprised.

Mr. Jones is the most difficult of my clients. He's the only one who calls me at odd hours, demanding service. All the others prefer a routine schedule.

Climbing from bed, I wipe the sleep from my eyes. I don't have time to truly get ready. If I am not there in a timely manner, he will threaten to fire me again. I don't want to tempt fate that this will be the time he follows through.

So instead, I pull on my slacks and blouse, slipping my feet into my flats before pulling my hair up. Then I grab my go bag with all my work supplies.

Running around the south side of Chicago at this time of night isn't the safest, but when you grow up here, you get to know who to avoid and who to make friends with.

I nod to the corner drug slinger as I head down to the "L."

Thankfully, it isn't too late. He called me after the purple line has stopped running for the night before. The red line only takes me so far north. It's only an eight-minute train ride from Howard to Foster, but it's a three-mile walk to the station, then another half a mile to Mr. Jones's house. It wasn't a fun night.

Once on the train, I let my thoughts drift. This week has been the week from hell. Between Mr. Jones calling me out four other times to the lashing I took from Mrs. Godfrey about her potted plants she swears I must have damaged instead of her cat, I was looking forward to the one full night of sleep I might have gotten.

Alas, it was not meant to be.

A little more than an hour and a small catnap later, I finally make it to Foster Station. Exiting the train, I don't linger. I pick up my pace, ready to get this over with.

The lights in the house are off, which only annoys me. He wanted me here so bad, but he couldn't even be here?

Then again, why am I even surprised? This is his MO.

Pulling his key from my bag, I unlock the door, turning on the entry light. The place looks immaculate, as usual. Still, something must be out of place for him to call me this late.

Setting down my things next to the front door, I slip off my shoes before making my way through the house. As I pass the kitchen, I pause, thinking I see a shadow. What the hell? Is someone here? Flipping the lights on, the space is empty.

I shake my head. My imagination was just playing tricks on me. Sleep deprivation is going to kill me. I wish I could have gotten a full night's sleep for once.

Rubbing my neck, I continue to make my way through the house. I swear I can feel eyes on me, but I know I'm being paranoid. Mr. Jones would have already made himself known with his leering looks and sexist comments masked as jokes. I really hate the man, but he pays good money for me to be on call for him. With as much as I struggle, I can't pass up the easy money.

He's the only client I have who has hired me directly. All the others went through Theresa, my boss. Mr. Jones didn't like having a middleman, so after paying her a healthy amount, he hired me directly.

I'm really feeling a pinch of regret for that right now.

Seeing no issues through the main portion of the house, I cringe.

Shit.

That means it's probably in his bedroom. Mr. Jones has some specific tastes when it comes to his sexual inclinations. I once had to clean urine from the carpet in his bedroom. He delighted in telling me how the woman he had been with enjoyed the warmth of his fluids on her skin.

I gagged at the thought.

Bracing myself for the worst, I head to his bedroom first.

As soon as I flip the lights on, I frown. There is broken glass on the floor. The bed is in disarray, and what looks to be blood covers the sheets. I scrunch my nose up.

Disgusting. This is out of character, even for him. I don't even want to know how his things ended up broken. I sure hope that the blood is from some girl being on her period and not because he hurt her. He never gave off a violent vibe, but you never know someone.

The light in the bathroom is already on, so I make my way over there.

Kicking the door open, I find Mr. Jones.

Only he's paler than I saw him last.

His eyes are open, staring at the wall as if he's in a daze.

"Mr. Jones," I call out to him.

He doesn't move.

My stomach twists into knots as dread hits me.

Something's wrong.

As I step closer, I notice all the blood in the bathtub below him, and my breath catches as I take in the sight.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then I hear something behind me.

Spinning, I see him. The dark, looming figure moving closer.

I should scream. Or maybe run. Find a weapon and fight him.

I can't, though. Instead, my body freezes.

This is the moment I know I'm going to die.

I can't even beg for my life.

So instead, I close my eyes and wait for it to all be over.

Maybe I'll finally find peace.

She shouldn't be here.

That's all I can think as I stalk this beautiful woman through the house. I shouldn't let her continue on, but I can't help it.

She's gorgeous. Like a light at the end of a dark tunnel.

I knew I shouldn't have followed her as she made her way through the house, but I wanted to be close to her. After watching her come and go over the past couple of weeks, having her show up now feels like fate.

So I allow myself the small concession.

She really shouldn't be here. Now that she is, she's going to have to be taken care of. I can't have her talk about what she's about to find, but I also don't want to give up this moment.

The feeling I feel when I look at her isn't one I've felt before.

So I let her walk into the bedroom, then the bathroom.

I expected her to scream. I'm already on the move to stop her, but as she spins to face me, her face etched with horror, she doesn't make a sound.

She freezes, staring at me with wide eyes. Then they fall closed as her body starts to shake.

I frown. I don't like that she's acting this way.

She should be screaming. Fighting even. Not making a sound or moving is stupid. She's not even trying to save her own life. I've even had people plead for me to spare them, but not this beauty.

Instead, she stands there as stoic as she can with her eyes closed and her body trembling.

I move in closer, taking in her sweet scent. Lavender. It smells like the lotion Miya favors. I enjoy it.

Still, she doesn't move.

Reaching out, I brush my hand against her, watching as her eyes flinch. Finally, something from her.

In that moment, I knew I couldn't dispose of her. Not like I would other loose ends. Something about her makes me want to take care of her. To take her with me and never let anyone ever hurt her again.

My hand grabs hers, making her eyes fly open. I put my other hand to my mouth, my index finger to my lips.

She nods as if she understands to be quiet.

Pulling her from the room, I move her to the bed. It has blood on it, making me frown. I don't want her far from me, though.

I push her against the wall, holding my hand to her chest. I give her a hard look, pushing my hand against her.

I back away a little and hold my hand up again, hoping she understands to stay put.

Then I move to the closet, pulling this man's clothes out and dumping them on the bed to cover the blood.

Good enough.

Moving her to the bed, I push on her shoulders until she sits. She's not even crying anymore. I think she's in shock. She sits quietly, her eyes focused on something behind me.

Taking one of the zip ties from my back pocket, I thread them over her wrists before tying them to the headboard.

She whimpers softly, but other than that, she complies.

Moving back to the bathroom, I make quick work of the body. Fucker thought he could get out of his debt with the Yakuza by trying to align with the Irish. The idiot didn't realize that while they are separate entities, they've been tied together through marriage. Callum would have to really fuck up to get Kai to make a move against him. Cleo would never allow it otherwise.

My mind wanders back to the beautiful brunette in the next room. A woman can really make all the difference. I saw it with Kai first, then Kenji. I won't lie. Meeting Miya and seeing the kindness she showed me made me want that for myself.

Not Miya. She had been Kenji's for far longer than either of them cared to admit. Still, I wanted what she represented. If she could see past my tough exterior and inability to communicate effectively, then maybe I could find someone else who would.

I never would have even considered it before Miya. Never would have even looked at the gorgeous woman twice.

Yet I did, and now here we are.

Kai is going to kill me. The moment I decided to keep her alive, I knew I would do anything to keep her safe.

Once I have the man chopped into pieces and separated into bags, I walk back into the bedroom. The girl startles, looking at me. I see the blood on her wrists. I shake my head at her. I don't want her cutting herself up trying to get free.

I hold up my pointer finger at her to tell her to wait a minute. Then I head down the stairs at a sprint. It takes two trips to get the bags into the car, but I don't want to waste time, so I take as many as I can on each trip to minimize the work.

When I get back up to the bedroom, the girl looks scared. She's stopped trying to get free, though.

Taking out my knife, I move closer to her. Then she breathes one word.

"Please."

That's all she says, but it's like a kick to my heart. I hate hearing her sound so small. That won't do.

I can't tell her that, though. I need to get her out of here. Normally I'd handle cleanup myself, but with her here, I need to call in a favor.

When the zip ties come free, she looks up at me. I bring her wrists to my mouth, kissing each one gently before grimacing.

Pulling her into the bathroom, I rinse her wrists before grabbing a towel, ripping it into two pieces that I can tie around her bleeding wrists.

Once I'm sure she's okay, I grab her forearm as I drag her downstairs. Seeing the bag she brought with her, I grab it, tossing it over my shoulder. Then I take her outside, leading her to the passenger seat of the car.

"I won't say anything," she whispers, her eyes taking in the quiet street.

I shake my head, opening the door to the car to usher her in. Once she's inside, I lean down, buckling her seat belt. Then I hold up my hand, telling her to stay.

She listens.

It's not until we get on the road that she speaks again.

"Why didn't you kill me there? What are you going to do to me?"

I shake my head at her, wishing I could offer her reassurance. It's not the first time I've wished I could communicate better, but it is the one that hurts the most.

She's frightened.

All I want to do is tell her that it will all be okay. That I won't hurt her. No one will. Not ever again.

She falls into silence after that. Not moving an inch when I make it to the river, getting out to dispose of the body. Not even when I turn my back on her, wishing she would run.

My beautiful, broken beauty.

I'll take care of you.