Chapter 2 - The Sound of a Name
Quinn took half a step backward, her leather-soled flats making no sound against the parquet as she began to turn toward the service corridor. In her line of work, navigating the temperaments of Chicago’s ruling class was an exercise in survival: when the predator is resting, you do not linger to see what wakes him.
Declan did not sigh. He did not shift his broad shoulders.
Slowly, deliberately, his left hand fell from his forehead, landing with a heavy, relaxed thud against the navy velvet of his chair’s armrest.
He lifted his head.
His eyes were deep, stormy hazel, framed by thick, dark lashes and an unyielding, predatory calm that stopped the breath in Quinn’s throat. There was no rage in his expression, nor the sharp annoyance common among men who inherited empires. His tired, guarded demeanor simply settled into an intense, razor-sharp focus that locked onto her face like a targeting beam.
Quinn paused mid-step, her spine stiffening beneath her ruffled collar. The air in the salon seemed to thin out, the scent of white gardenias suddenly overpowered by the dark, masculine aroma of cedarwood, rich tobacco, and the warm, bitter roast of the silver coffee pot.
Declan did not stand. He did not raise his voice above a conversational murmur.
“Quinn Hayes.”
The syllables rolled off his tongue with a low, textured baritone that was astonishingly steady, smooth as silk and heavy as iron.
Quinn turned fully back toward him, her small apologetic smile instantly dissolving into an expression of raw, unvarnished shock. Her hazel-brown eyes widened, her hands freezing against the linen ruffles of her apron.
Florists were nameless phantoms in the Sullivan universe. For five generations, the family had treated the people who pruned their hedges, pressed their linens, and arranged their funeral wreaths like decorative furniture. They were addressed as Miss, or Girl, or simply given a dismissive flick of a hand when the coffee was poured.
Yet here was Declan Sullivan—the feared Don whose name cleared docks and silenced courtrooms—speaking both of her names as if reading a familiar deed.
“You know my name?” Quinn asked, the words tumbling past her lips before her professional filter could catch them.
Declan did not blink. He leaned back into the deep contour of the velvet armchair, his broad chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic expansion that pulled the black silk of his waistcoat taut. The silver rings on his right hand caught the sunlight from the tall windows as his fingers tapped an unhurried, measured beat against the carved armrest.
May you like
He held her gaze with an unblinking, calm intensity that made her skin prickle with sudden, electric heat.
“I’ve noticed you,” Declan answered, his voice unhurried, quiet, and devastatingly clear. “For two years.”
