Chapter 1 - THE MAN WHO TOOK HER
“What did he do to you?”
Norah didn’t answer immediately.
The armored sedan cut through the rain, tires hissing against the wet Chicago streets while Dominic held her against his chest.
Her fingers were still gripping his lapel.
Not because she was afraid he would let go.
Because she was afraid she would fall apart if she did.
“He tied me to a chair,” she whispered.
Dominic’s face turned to stone.
Mateo glanced at them through the rearview mirror.
Norah continued.
“At first, he just talked. Gavin wanted me to understand what you had cost him.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“What else?”
“He showed me photographs.”
“What photographs?”
“Me.”
Dominic went still.
Norah swallowed.
“Leaving the gallery. Going to the florist. Visiting my mother. Walking into your building.”
The temperature inside the car seemed to drop.
Mateo cursed under his breath.
“He’s been following her,” Dominic said.
“For weeks,” Norah replied.
Dominic looked out the window.
That was worse than an impulsive kidnapping.
It meant planning.
Patience.
Access.
Someone had been feeding Pierce information.
“He asked what I knew about you,” Norah said.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you hate olives.”
Dominic looked at her.
Despite the blood on her dress, despite the bruise on her jaw, she gave him the faintest smile.
“I thought it was funny.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
“He wanted account numbers. Names. Properties.”
“And?”
“I told him I’m an art curator.”
“You’re also the woman who has keys to my home.”
“I told him those keys open the wine cellar.”
“They don’t.”
“He didn’t know that.”
For the first time since she had entered the Blackthorn Club, something almost resembling pride moved through Dominic’s expression.
Then he saw her ankle again.
“What happened to your foot?”
Norah looked down.
“One of his men tried to move me. I kicked him.”
“With a silver heel?”
“It was all I had.”
Mateo made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Dominic did not.
“Then?”
“The heel broke. There was glass on the floor.”
Dominic’s hand tightened around hers.
“And you escaped?”
“Not exactly.”
His eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
Norah looked toward Mateo.
“Someone helped me.”
The car became very quiet.
“Who?” Dominic asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You saw him?”
“Barely. The lights went out. Somebody unlocked the door where they were holding me.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man.”
“What did he say?”
Norah’s breathing changed.
Dominic noticed.
“Norah.”
“He knew my name.”
“That isn’t surprising.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“That wasn’t the strange part.”
“What was?”
“He told me exactly where to run. He knew which hallway didn’t have cameras.”
Mateo turned slightly in his seat.
“That means inside knowledge.”
Norah nodded.
“He got me out through a loading dock. There was a cab waiting.”
Dominic’s eyes sharpened.
“The cab that brought you to Blackthorn?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the driver?”
“Only from behind.”
Dominic leaned closer.
“What did your rescuer say before you left?”
Norah closed her eyes.
“I asked him why he was helping me.”
“And?”
“He said Gavin Pierce wasn’t the person I should be afraid of.”
Dominic’s expression changed.
“Who did he say you should fear?”
Norah opened her eyes.
“You.”
No one spoke for several seconds.
Then Norah reached slowly into the torn side of her dress.
Dominic caught her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Pierce put something in my pocket before he left the room.”
She pulled out a folded photograph.
Dominic took it.
The image was old.
At least twenty years.
A younger Dominic stood beside his father outside the Castile family estate.
But the person standing on Dominic’s other side made his blood run cold.
Norah stared at the photograph.
“Who is she?”
Dominic didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
Because the woman smiling beside him had been dead for eighteen years.
His older sister, Elena.
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And across the bottom of the photograph, someone had written one sentence in black ink:
ASK DOMINIC WHO REALLY KILLED HER.
