Page 18 of Dark Obsession

We pull up to a shopping district in Logan Square, an area where trendy boutiques sit right next to grungy bars and old corner stores. The rain makes everything glisten, puddles reflecting the mismatched brick walls with graffiti art. Perfect.

I hop out of the car, my boots splashing lightly as I land. But before I can take two steps, the guards are on me. I shoot them a grin, trying to play it cool. “You know, you’re not exactly inconspicuous like this.”

They’re having none of it. “We’re under strict orders to stay close to you, Miss Ivanova. No exceptions.”

I roll my eyes, still trying to lighten the mood. “Right, but that doesn’t mean literally on top of me.”

They don’t even crack a smile. Tough crowd.

I pick a boutique at random, one selling overpriced scarves, hats, and jackets. The guards enter first to sweep the place, their eyes scanning every inch like it’s a potential war zone. Once they’re satisfied it’s safe, they wave me in.

I do my best to pretend I’m shopping, picking up a scarf here, glancing at a jacket there, all while my mind races. I reach for my phone instinctively before remembering it’s gone. Great. I need another one. Fast.

I casually scan the shop, looking for a back way out. I spot a bit of light peeking through at the end of the dressing room hallway. Craning my neck, I see a small window partially hidden by clothing rack full of jackets.

Perfect cover and a chance at a way to sneak out.

I grab a handful of random clothes, draping them over my arm as I turn to the guards. “I’m going to try a few things on,” I say with a sweet smile.

They start to follow, and I laugh, shaking my head. “Please tell me you don’t plan on coming into the dressing room with me. I don’t want to have to tell my brother you saw me in my underwear.”

The taller one looks flustered for a second before glancing at his partner. “We’ll, uh… we’ll wait out here.”

“Good choice,” I say with a wink, trying to hide my excitement. “I’ll be quick.”

They nod and take up their positions on the shop floor, clearly thinking they’ve got everything under control. I thank them, then make my way down the dressing room hallway, pretending to examine the clothes as I go. I look at the window again, double-checking my route. It’s not too far up, and with the clothing rack giving me just enough cover, it’s the perfect way out.

Once inside one of the rooms, I hang up the clothes I grabbed. My heart races but I keep calm, my mind mapping out my escape. I move quickly, quietly, opening the dressing room door just a crack and peeking out. The guards are facing the shop floor, completely oblivious.

The coast is clear.

I slip behind the rack of clothes and carefully stand on my tiptoes, reaching for the window latch. It creaks open just enough for me to squeeze through. I glance around for something to help me with the height. A small wooden footstool used for trying on shoes is right next to the rack. Perfect.

I grab it, setting it beneath the window. Steadying myself, I step onto it before reaching up and gripping the windowsill. With a swift pull, I hoist myself up and through the window. I land lightly on my feet outside, a rush of adrenaline coursing through me.

I run over the details in my head. I need to get to a bar called El Nido on Armitage. It’s the place where Claudio Sanchez was picked up. If he's been there before, then people might know something. With any luck, they'll talk.

The rain is still coming down though it’s lightened into a soft, steady drizzle that matches the cool Chicago air. I tug my jacket tighter around me and head off down the alley. Grigori might think he’s handling this on his own but I’m about to get ahead of him.

I set a timer on my watch for ten minutes. I know that’s how long I have before my guards will start to get suspicious. After that, they’ll storm through that boutique, and my little escapade will be over. I need to move fast.

It doesn’t take long before I reach El Nido.

I push the door open, the smell of stale beer and smoke instantly hitting me. Inside, it’s dimly lit, with wood-paneled walls and vinyl bar stools that have probably been in the same spot for decades. A few regulars are scattered about—rough-looking guysnursing their drinks. Their eyes flick to me as I walk in. They don’t seem friendly, but I’ve never been the type to back down.

I slide onto a barstool, shaking the rain off my jacket. The bartender, a gruff older man with salt-and-pepper stubble, walks over. I order a gin and tonic, something simple to keep it casual.

“Claudio Sanchez,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You know him?”

He raises an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Who’s asking?”

I lean in a little, giving the bartender a sly smile. “An old fling of his.”

He chuckles, clearly amused. “That right?”

“We went on a few dates, and then he ghosted me. Do I look like the kind of woman who’s going to take that kind of bullshit?”

The bartender’s grin widens, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

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