Chapter 2 - The Valon Rule|
The Valon compound sat on fourteen heavily guarded acres along the North Shore of Lake Michigan. Surrounded by twelve-foot stone walls topped with razor wire and monitored by thermal cameras, it was less of a private estate and more of a modern fortress.
When Rhett's black armored SUV pulled through the wrought-iron gates, the security detail went rigid.
Rhett didn't wait for his driver to open the door. He stepped out into the pouring rain, walked around to the passenger side, and reached inside. Before Isa could protest, he scooped her into his arms again, carrying her up the wide marble steps of the main house.
Marcus was waiting in the grand foyer, flanked by a tall woman in a white medical coat.
"Sir," Marcus began, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the state of the woman in his boss's arms. "Dr. Vance is ready in the east wing."
"Clear the main floor," Rhett commanded without slowing his stride. "No staff. No guards. Just Dr. Vance."
"Understood, sir." Marcus motioned for the detail to fall back.
Rhett carried Isa into a private medical suite that looked more like an advanced surgical bay than a room in a residential mansion. He set her down gently on the padded examination table.
Dr. Elena Vance, a woman who had patched up Valon syndicate enforcers for fifteen years, stepped forward without asking unnecessary questions. Her sharp blue eyes assessed Isa's battered frame with clinical detachment.
"Ribs first," Dr. Vance said, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves. "She's breathing too shallow."
"I'll be outside," Rhett said, his eyes lingering on Isa's pale face.
"No," Isa said suddenly, her fingers reaching out to catch the sleeve of his dark suit jacket. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, but it stopped Rhett dead in his tracks. "Stay."
Rhett looked down at her small hand against his sleeve, then met Dr. Vance's raised eyebrows.
"I'm staying," Rhett said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
For thirty minutes, Rhett stood motionless beside the examination table while Dr. Vance worked. He watched every flinch, heard every choked gasp of pain as the doctor palpated Isa's torso, cleaned her split lip, and evaluated the dark contusions along her ribs and throat.
"Two cracked ribs on the left side," Dr. Vance reported finally, setting down a syringe of pain medication. "Severe soft-tissue trauma to the jaw and throat. No internal bleeding, fortunately, but she needs rest and absolute immobilization for her torso."
"The eye?" Rhett asked, his tone flat.
"Orbital fracture is negative. The swelling will peak in forty-eight hours. She was lucky, Mr. Valon."
"She wasn't lucky," Rhett growled, the dark energy in the room spiking so hard that even Dr. Vance paused. "She survived."
Dr. Vance administered a mild sedative through an IV line. Within ten minutes, Isa's heavy eyelids began to droop. Her grip on Rhett's sleeve loosened, her breathing finally smoothing out into a deep, drug-induced sleep.
Rhett remained beside the table until he was certain she was completely under. Only then did he slide his sleeve free from her relaxed fingers and step out into the hallway, where Marcus was waiting like a shadow.
"Talk to me," Rhett said, walking toward his private study.
Marcus walked half a step behind him, pulling a thick black tablet from his coat. "Tyler Cain. Thirty-two years old. Minor partner at a boutique financial firm in the Loop. His father is Arthur Cain, who holds a minor stake in the city's port authority."
Rhett pushed open the heavy oak doors of his study and walked straight to the decanter of scotch on his desk. He poured two fingers of amber liquid but didn't drink it.
"He has no idea who she works for, does he?" Rhett asked softly.
"None," Marcus replied. "To Cain, Isa was just an independent woman who lived in Pilsen and worked a corporate job. He thought he was dealing with someone who had no backing."
Rhett turned around, his gray eyes turned to liquid ice under the dim chandeliers.
"Where is he right now?"
Marcus tapped the tablet screen. "He's at a private lounge on River North. Celebrating a real estate closing with three of his associates."
Rhett set his scotch glass down on the desk with a quiet, terrifying click.
"Get the car," Rhett said. "And bring Thomas."
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Marcus didn't move for a fraction of a second. "Sir... Thomas is for syndicate executions. If we move on a civilian like Cain in a public space—"
"He put his hands on my chief assistant in her own home, Marcus," Rhett interrupted, his voice dropping into a register that made the hair on Marcus's arms stand up. "He isn't a civilian anymore. He's a dead man walking."
