1
Natalia
Rain lashesagainst the dark awning of Il Corvo, soaking the hem of my scarlet dress before I hit the door handle.
Chicago weather possesses zero respect for expensive silk or the fact that I am already fourteen minutes late for a meeting that came with an implicit threat attached. The brass handle is heavy. Pushing through the wooden door feels like breaking the seal on a tomb.
The immediate scent of rich, dark espresso and old leather cuts through the damp chill clinging to my skin. Il Corvo operates in the West Loop as a private, neutral ground. Open only to those with the right last name or the right amount of leverage. My firm handles the kind of corporate litigation that requires absolute discretion, which is why my managing partner tossed this file on my desk at six this morning, pale and sweating through his custom Tom Ford suit.
He told me to go to Il Corvo. He told me the Costas requested me specifically.
My stilettos click sharply against the restored hardwood floor. The main dining room is empty of patrons. No clinking silver. No low murmurs of backdoor political deals. Just empty leather booths and the low, steady hiss of the espresso machinebehind the mahogany bar. Two men in tailored black suits stand near the hallway leading to the private back rooms. Their jackets bulge slightly on the left side.
Guns. Of course there are guns.
Men with too much money and too many secrets always surround themselves with armor. I spend my days cleaning up the legal messes of predatory executives, arrogant hedge fund managers, and politicians who think the law is a suggestion. They all blur together into one exhausting wave of male entitlement. Corporate cynicism hardened my spine a long time ago. I do not intimidate easily. I certainly do not flinch at two glorified bouncers in a restaurant.
A man emerges from the shadowed hallway before the guards can step into my path. He is older, perhaps in his late sixties, with thick silver hair and a weathered face. His eyes are warm. Unexpectedly kind.
"Miss Kim," he says. "We appreciate you braving the storm. I am Turi."
"Traffic on the Eisenhower doesn't care about my schedule, Turi." I shake the water from my umbrella, unbothered by the puddle forming near the entrance. "And my managing partner didn't exactly give me an itinerary. Just an address and a vague instruction not to screw this up."
Turi offers a soft, grandfatherly smile. It contrasts with the lethal quiet of the room. "The men in your firm operate on fear. We prefer efficiency. Please. Right this way. He is waiting."
I drop the umbrella in a brass stand by the door. I adjust the neckline of my dress, mentally preparing my armor. The men I deal with respect aggression and a healthy dose of unadulterated nerve. I am chaos in a dress, running on three hours of sleep, purely fueled by caffeine and spite. Whoever this Costa client is, he will get exactly what everyone else gets. No free passes. No bowing down to a mafia surname.
Turi leads me down the hallway. The lighting dims. The walls are lined with vintage wine racks, the glass bottles catching the sparse overhead light. At the end of the corridor, double oak doors stand open.
"In there," Turi says gently. He does not follow me. He folds his hands behind his back and waits.
I step across the threshold.
The air in the room is instantly different. Heavy. Charged. The atmospheric pressure drops so fast my ears nearly pop.
A man sits at the far end of a long, dark mahogany table.
He is still.
The snap of a playing card echoes off the wood paneling. Then another.Snick. Snick. Snick.
He shuffles a worn deck of cards with one hand, bridging them flawlessly, snapping them back together in a rhythmic, hypnotic cascade. He is not looking at his hands. He is looking dead at me.
The pressure of his gaze pins my feet to the floor. An invisible anchor drops squarely onto my chest. Gravity shifts, tilting the axis of the room exclusively toward the chair where he sits.
Wavy, salt-and-pepper hair falls over his forehead, at odds with the brutal, immaculate cut of his dark suit. A trimmed beard outlines a jaw carved from granite. His frame is deceptively lean, the white button-down beneath his suit jacket left open at the collar. A heavy platinum band glints on his ring finger as his thumb flicks another card.
The calculation in his dark eyes is terrifying.
He assesses me the way an actuary assesses a catastrophic loss. He is cataloging my wet hair, the aggressive red of my dress, the slight tremor in my left hand gripping my briefcase, the defiant tilt of my chin. A human spreadsheet, violently reducing me to data points.
"Natalia Kim," he says.
His voice is smooth, low, and exact. Each syllable measured. Each pause priced. A man reading me my own contract.
"Enzo Costa," I reply, pulling my shoulders back. I refuse to let the silence settle. Silence is a negotiation tactic. I know them all. "My firm bills at eight hundred an hour for senior associates. Since you requested me personally, and bypassed standard intake procedures, we are already on the clock. What exactly is the legal emergency?"
I stride forward, dropping my leather briefcase onto the polished table. It hits with a thud.
