Chapter 3 - The Price of a Mistake|
The Velvet Room was an exclusive, subterranean lounge in River North where young financial traders spent absurd amounts of money to feel important.
At 11:30 PM, the atmospheric bass was thumping through the velvet-draped walls. Tyler Cain was sitting in a corner booth, an expensive bottle of champagne resting in an ice bucket beside him, surrounded by three laughing associates. He had a bandage across his right knuckles—a detail Rhett noticed the instant he stepped into the room.
Rhett didn't bring a team inside. He walked in accompanied only by Thomas, a six-foot-four enforcer whose presence alone was enough to quiet the surrounding tables.
When Rhett approached the booth, Cain looked up, a cocky, half-drunken smile on his face.
"Can I help you, pal?" Cain asked, leaning back against the leather seat. "This is a private table."
Rhett didn't speak. He simply reached down, grabbed Cain by his silk tie, and yanked him across the marble table, shattering the champagne glasses and sending the ice bucket crashing to the floor.
Cain screamed as his body was dragged over the splintering wood. His three friends jumped up, but Thomas stepped forward, unbuttoning his tailored jacket to reveal the heavy shoulder holster resting beneath.
"Sit down," Thomas said softly to the friends.
They sat down immediately.
Rhett dragged Cain by his collar into the dark, narrow hallway near the executive restrooms, slamming him backward against the exposed brick wall with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
"What the hell!" Cain gasped, clutching at Rhett's hands. "Who the fuck are you?! Do you know who my father is?!"
Rhett leaned in until his face was inches from Cain's. The young trader's cockiness evaporated the moment he looked into Rhett's eyes. There was no anger there—only a vast, terrifying emptiness.
"You broke into an apartment in Pilsen this morning," Rhett said, his voice entirely conversational.
Cain froze, his eyes widening in sudden, sickening panic. "Isa? You're... you're here because of that crazy bitch?!"
Rhett's hand moved so fast it was a blur. He grabbed Cain's right hand—the hand with the bandaged knuckles—and slammed it flat against the brick wall. Before Cain could scream, Rhett brought his heavy, gloved left palm down onto Cain's outstretched fingers with bone-shattering force.
CRACK.
A choked, horrifying shriek tore from Cain's throat as three of his fingers bent at unnatural, nauseating angles. He dropped to his knees, but Rhett maintained his crushing grip on his collar, keeping him upright.
"Listen to me very carefully, Tyler," Rhett whispered, his breath warm against Cain's tear-streaked face. "You hit her with that hand. You bruised her throat. You broke her ribs."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Cain sobbed, his body shaking violently from pain and shock. "She broke up with me! She wouldn't talk to me! I lost my temper—"
"If you ever speak her name again," Rhett interrupted, his voice dropping an octave, "if you look at a photograph of her, if you walk on the same street she lives on, I won't just break your hands. I will erase your father's firm, I will ruin your family, and then I will bury you in the concrete foundation of Pier 42."
Rhett released his grip. Cain collapsed into a crumpled, sobbing heap on the filthy floor, cradling his ruined hand against his chest.
Rhett pulled a clean white handkerchief from his coat pocket, methodically wiping his gloves clean as he turned to Thomas.
"Call the city building inspector," Rhett ordered, walking past the broken man toward the exit. "Shut this club down by midnight. And have Marcus drain Tyler Cain's personal investment accounts by morning."
"Consider it done, Mr. Valon," Thomas replied.
May you like
Rhett stepped out into the rain, tossing the dirty handkerchief into a trash bin. The violent rage inside his chest hadn't vanished—it had simply settled into a cold, permanent foundation.
Isa was going to recover. And he was going to make sure she never needed to be brave alone again.
