Page 1 of Savage Vows
1
ADRIANA
The girl walksinto the club like she owns the place.
Neon lights ripple over her bare shoulders, her tight black dress catching flashes of purple and gold as she weaves through the crowd. Heads turn. A few men step aside instinctively. A group of women glance up, lips curling in quick assessment, curiosity, envy.
She doesn’t look at anyone, not really. Just moves toward the bar like she has somewhere to be, like she isn’t the loudest thing in the room.
She’s young. Pretty. Confident. The kind of girl a man likehimwould notice.
And that’s the point.
She’s not me.
No one would notice me here, not with the pounding bass, the sweat-slicked bodies, the lights blinking like strobes against the haze. I’m a shadow at the far end of the bar, nursing a watered-down whiskey in a scratched glass, pretending to scroll through my phone.
And that makes me perfect for a job like this.
She spots me. A flicker of eye contact through the mirror behind the bar. Just a flash of acknowledgment before she turns her back and orders something pink and expensive.
Good girl.
We don’t know each other tonight. We haven’t spent the last three weeks mapping out every exit of this building. We haven’t memorized the mark’s face, habits, favorite drink. We haven’t practiced the signal.
She’s just another pretty distraction.
And I’m the quiet insurance policy sitting ten feet away, ready in case things go wrong. They usually do.
Earlier this week, in Miriam’s crammed, overheated office, I sat across from her desk clutching a folder I knew she wouldn’t like.
She didn’t even open it. Just stared at the cover like it might catch fire.
“Adriana,” she said slowly, “why is there a photo of a man who owns half the nightclubs in the South Loop in your features queue?”
“Because he’s not just a club owner,” I told her. “He’s moving money through charities that don’t exist, buying up real estate under shell companies, and making campaign donations from organizations that have no employees. I checked the filings. It’s textbook laundering.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “God, I hate when you say things like ‘textbook laundering’ as if we have a legal team on speed dial.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “This is big. Real corruption. Possibly linked to trafficking. And we’re sitting on it because no one else is paying attention.”
“Exactly. No one’s paying attention,” she snapped. “Because this kind of thing? It’s out of our league. We’re notThe Tribune. We’re a neighborhood paper with a skeleton staff and a printer that eats half our layout. I hired you to write clean copy about dog rescues and rising property taxes, not run some solo crusade against Chicago’s backroom elite.”
I didn’t say anything.
Miriam leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Adriana, listen to me. You’re good. Better than your bylines let on. But if you go poking into this, if your name ends up attached to something—someone—dangerous, I can’t protect you. Hell, I won’t even be able to publish you.”
I looked her in the eye and said, “Then I won’t file it through you.”
She exhaled, slumped back in her chair. “Jesus. You’re going to get yourself in trouble.”
“Probably.”
Now, in the sticky glow of the club’s pink-and-blue lights, my phone buzzes in my palm.
Miriam:Don’t tell me you’re still chasing that club story. Adriana, please. Let it go.
I lock the screen and slide the phone back into my jacket pocket. I’m not here to text. I’m here to watch.
