Chapter 7 - The Master of the House
Julian Cross stepped across the threshold with the relaxed, unhurried arrogance of a man entering his private property.
At thirty-six, the logistics executive looked every inch the wealthy Lake Forest patrician. He had sandy-blond hair styled with expensive pomade, sharp blue eyes, and an athletic build clad in a tailored camel-wool coat over a crisp blue cashmere sweater and gray flannel trousers. In his left hand, he carried a brown paper bakery bag that smelled of cinnamon and warm butter. In his right hand, he held a sleek key ring on a sterling silver Tiffany chain.
His face was arranged into a practiced, handsome smile—the smile of an abuser who had perfected the performance of civilized remorse.
“Isa, darling,” Julian began, his voice dripping with condescending affection as he pushed the door inward, “I know last night got a little out of hand, but you have to understand that when you run away from our home, you leave me no choice—’
The words died in his throat.
The smile did not simply fade from Julian Cross’s face; it was ripped away as though hit by a blast of arctic air.
His eyes traveled up the expanse of a tailored charcoal suit, past the broad, immovable slab of a chest framed by a fitted black shirt, and locked onto the carved, bearded face of Rhett Valin.
Julian froze mid-step, his right foot hovering an inch above the floorboards before descending with a heavy, clumsy thud. The paper bakery bag in his left hand crinkled sharply as his fingers convulsed, the smell of warm cinnamon suddenly mocking the suffocating, lethal silence of the apartment.
The color fled from Julian’s cheeks with the speed of an open drain, leaving his aristocratic skin the sickly, translucent color of curdled milk. His jaw slackened, his eyes bulging in sheer, primeval terror as his brain scrambled to comprehend the impossibility standing in front of him.
Don Valin.
Not an enforcer. Not a police detective. The undisputed king of the Chicago underworld was standing in the narrow hallway of a tenement apartment in Pilsen, staring down at him with eyes that were utterly, terrifyingly dead.
“D-Don Valin?” Julian stammered, the smooth, baritone drawl disintegrating into a high-pitched, pathetic squeak.
He took half a step backward, his heel catching against the metal threshold runner, his back hitting the doorframe. His hand instinctively reached for the doorknob, but Rhett’s presence was a physical wall that seemed to suck the oxygen straight out of the stairwell.
“Julian,” Rhett said softly.
The name was spoken with no inflection, no heat, and no volume. It was the voice of a judge reading an execution order from an ancient scroll.
Rhett did not draw his weapon. He did not raise his fists. He simply stood there, towering over his chief logistics officer, his hands resting loosely at his sides.
“You’re late for the morning logistics briefing,” Rhett murmured, his dark hazel eyes boring into Julian’s skull with the intensity of an industrial laser. “Marcus said you were held up by personal business.”
Julian swallowed hard, his throat making a loud, dry click that resonated through the quiet hallway. Sweat broke out across his temples, glistening in the pale morning light, despite the freezing draft blowing up the stairs.
“Mr. Valin… sir,” Julian stammered, raising his trembling hands in an awkward, defensive posture. “This… this is an administrative misunderstanding. I didn't know… I didn't know you had business in Pilsen. What are you doing here?”
May you like
Rhett tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the silver key ring clutched in Julian’s right hand, then slowly rising back to his eyes.
“I’m checking on my housekeeper, Julian,” Rhett said, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the floorboards beneath their boots vibrate. “And finding out what kind of animal I’ve been paying half a million dollars a year to manage my ships.”
