Recognition.
As if he had looked past the gown, past the diamonds, past my practiced smile, and seen the woman screaming silently underneath.
Derek noticed.
“Who is he?” he asked, still smiling for the guests.
“I don’t know,” I said.
It was the truth.
I did not know Victor Salvatore—not his voice, not his face, not the way his presence could make powerful men swallow their arrogance.
But Derek knew him.
“That,” he said quietly, fear sharpening his breath, “is Victor Salvatore.”
The name meant almost nothing to me then. I had heard whispers, of course. Everyone in Chicago had. Victor Salvatore was the man bankers feared, judges avoided, and criminals blamed when their empires disappeared overnight. Some called him a monster. Some called him justice with better tailoring.
Derek called him trouble.
“I need some air,” Derek said, guiding me toward the terrace doors.
My blood went cold.
The terrace had no cameras. No witnesses. No one brave enough to interfere. Derek always chose places where my voice could disappear.
“Please,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
His smile widened. “Don’t make a scene.”
Then Victor’s voice cut through the music.
“Miss Marlo.”
Derek froze. I turned. Victor stood behind us, and for the first time that night, someone looked at Derek’s hand on my waist and did not pretend not to see.
Derek forced a laugh. “Do we know each other?”