Chloe returned to the Russo estate three days later.
Mrs. Gable met her in the service hallway.
“You're supposed to take another day.”
“I feel fine.”
“You look less dead.”
“That's basically fine.”
Mrs. Gable sighed.
“You're impossible.”
Chloe smiled.
“I'm told it's charming.”
“It isn't.”
Mrs. Gable handed her a cleaning schedule.
Victor's bedroom was missing.
Chloe noticed immediately.
“I'm not assigned upstairs?”
“No.”
Her stomach sank.
“So I am being punished.”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Mr. Russo instructed me that you are not to clean his bedroom.”
Chloe swallowed.
“Oh.”
Perhaps Victor had reconsidered.
Perhaps waking beside an employee had seemed funny for thirty seconds and horrifying afterward.
That would make sense.
“Okay.”
She turned away.
Mrs. Gable added, “He said you work too hard when you're up there.”
Chloe stopped.
“What?”
Mrs. Gable's mouth twitched.
“Those were his words.”
The day became stranger.
At noon, Chloe discovered that her employee health insurance had been activated early.
At two, the payroll office informed her she had been moved from probationary status to permanent staff.
At four, Mrs. Gable told her she could leave.
“My shift ends at seven.”
“Mr. Russo changed it.”
“Why?”
“He apparently believes human beings require sleep.”
“Does he?”
Mrs. Gable gave her a meaningful look.
“Recently.”
Chloe found Victor in his study.
Two men in dark suits immediately stopped talking when she entered.
Victor sat behind a massive walnut desk.
He looked up.
“Something wrong?”
“Yes.”
The men exchanged glances.
Victor dismissed them.
When the door closed, Chloe approached.
“You changed my schedule.”
“Yes.”
“You activated my benefits.”
“Yes.”
“You sent Tommy's medication.”
“Yes.”
“So you admit that one.”
“I never denied it.”
“You absolutely pretended you didn't pay.”
“I said I didn't.”
“That's called denying.”
Victor leaned back.
“Technically, the Russo Foundation paid.”
Chloe stared.
“You have a foundation?”
“I have accountants.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“It is from my perspective.”
She crossed her arms.
“I don't want charity.”
His expression hardened.
“Neither do I.”
“Then what is this?”
“A practical solution.”
“For what?”
“You collapsing in my bed.”
Her face heated.
“You could stop saying that.”
“I could.”
“You aren't going to.”
“No.”
She looked away.
Victor noticed her embarrassment and enjoyed it more than he should have.
Chloe took a breath.
“Tommy and I manage.”
“You work eighteen-hour days.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know things.”
“Still creepy.”
His mouth almost curved.
“Sit down.”
“I'd rather stand.”
“You're stubborn.”
“So I've heard.”
Victor folded his hands.
“Your brother needs consistent treatment. You need to stop working yourself into the hospital.”
“You don't know anything about us.”
“I know your parents died when you were nineteen.”
Her face changed.
“I know you became Tommy's legal guardian. I know you left school. I know you're behind on medical payments and that you have never missed rent.”
Chloe stared at him.
“That isn't your business.”
“No.”
“Then stop making it your business.”
Victor's jaw tightened.
Most people obeyed when he entered a room.
Chloe barely obeyed gravity.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why what?”
“Why does help offend you?”
“Because help comes with strings.”
Victor went still.
Chloe continued.
“People offered help after my parents died. Then they disappeared. Some made me feel guilty every time I needed something. Others wanted applause for buying Tommy groceries once. I learned something.”
“What?”
“If somebody can take it away, it was never really yours.”
Victor understood that more than she knew.
“So you'd rather destroy yourself?”
“I'd rather know we're safe because I made us safe.”
Victor looked at her for a long moment.
“Fair enough.”
Chloe blinked.
“That's it?”
“Yes.”
She had prepared for an argument.
“You're not going to threaten me?”
“Would that improve your opinion?”
“No.”
“Then it seems inefficient.”
She almost laughed.
Victor opened a folder.
“Your insurance is part of your compensation. Keeping it isn't charity.”
“And Tommy's prescriptions?”
“A loan.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Interest?”
“Zero.”
“Repayment schedule?”
“When you can.”
“That is suspiciously generous.”
“I'll try to be more unpleasant tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
She reached the door.
“Chloe.”
She turned.
“Your brother's hospital bill.”
“No.”
“I didn't ask anything.”
“You were about to.”
Victor's eyes darkened with amusement.
“Get out of my office.”
She smiled.
“Yes, boss.”
The door closed.
Marcus emerged from an adjoining room.
Victor glared.
“How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
“You're fired.”
“You've fired me seventeen times.”
“Eighteen.”
Marcus poured himself coffee.
“She isn't afraid of you.”
Victor looked at the closed door.
“No.”
“That bother you?”
“Yes.”
Marcus smiled.
“Sure looks like it.”
Victor ignored him.
Over the next two weeks, something changed.
Not dramatically.
Victor didn't suddenly become warm.
Chloe didn't suddenly trust him.
Instead, tiny moments accumulated.
She found him reading at two in the morning and asked whether billionaires knew libraries existed.
He told her to stop calling him a billionaire.
She asked whether millionaire was less embarrassing.
He informed her that she was terrible at respecting authority.
She replied, “You noticed.”
One evening, Chloe was carrying laundry through the second-floor hall when Victor appeared.
“You're still here.”
“That's generally how employment works.”
“Your shift ended.”
“Mrs. Gable asked me to finish this.”
Victor took the basket from her.
Chloe stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Carrying laundry.”
“You're Victor Russo.”
“I remain aware.”
“You can't carry laundry.”
“Apparently I can.”
“If someone sees you—”
“What?”
“Your reputation will be destroyed.”
He looked at her.
“You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
Another night, Victor returned with blood on his cuff.
Chloe saw him enter the kitchen.
She froze.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That doesn't look like nothing.”
“It's not mine.”
She stared at him.
Victor realized how that sounded.
“Someone cut his hand.”
“Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“Great.”
She returned to making tea.
Victor watched her.
“You're not asking.”
“You told me not to.”
“Most people would.”
“Most people apparently have more free time.”
He sat at the island.
She slid tea toward him.
“I don't drink tea.”
“You do tonight.”
“Why?”
“You look terrible.”
He glanced at the cup.
“That's not a medical diagnosis.”
“Drink.”
Victor obeyed.
That was how Marcus found them ten minutes later.
He stopped in the doorway.
Victor Russo, feared across Chicago, sat quietly drinking chamomile because a twenty-four-year-old maid told him to.
Marcus wisely said nothing.
Christmas approached.
Tommy's health worsened.
Chloe tried hiding it.
Victor noticed anyway.
She dropped a glass in the dining room one afternoon.
The sound shattered the quiet.
“Sorry.”
Victor watched her crouch.
Her hands were trembling.
“Leave it.”
“I've got it.”
“Chloe.”
She looked up.
Her eyes were wet.
Victor dismissed everyone else.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You're bad at lying.”
“Tommy's labs came back.”
Victor waited.
“The doctor says his kidney function dropped again.”
Her voice cracked.
“They're talking about transplant lists and specialists and—”
She stopped.
Victor crouched beside her.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You don't have to fix everything today.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No.”
“You don't understand.”
“I understand responsibility.”
“He's fifteen.”
“I know.”
“He's all I have.”
That sentence struck harder than Victor expected.
He knew what it meant to have one person left.
And what it meant to lose him.
“Then we make sure he gets what he needs.”
“We?”
Victor hesitated.
“Yes.”
Chloe stared.
“Why?”
There it was.
The question he had avoided asking himself.
Why?
Why did he care?
Why had her medication become his concern?
Why did he know Tommy's latest lab numbers?
Why did he find excuses to walk through rooms Chloe happened to be cleaning?
Why had his insomnia improved since she'd fallen asleep in his bed?
Victor stood.
“Because I can help.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It's the only one you're getting.”
That evening, Chloe returned home to find Tommy asleep on the couch.
She tucked a blanket around him.
His eyes opened.
“Hey.”
“Sorry.”
“Victor Russo called me.”
Chloe froze.
“What?”
“He called.”
“Why?”
“He asked about my doctor.”
Her pulse accelerated.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you're obsessed with him.”
“Tommy!”
The boy laughed, then coughed.
“I'm kidding.”
Chloe sat.
“Seriously.”
“He asked who my specialist was.”
“Anything else?”
Tommy looked at her.
“He asked if I was scared.”
Chloe became still.
“What did you say?”
“The truth.”
“Which is?”
“Yes.”
She squeezed his hand.
Tommy studied her.
“He doesn't sound like people say.”
“You talked for five minutes.”
“Still.”
“Victor Russo is dangerous.”
“So?”
“So don't confuse kindness with safety.”
Tommy shrugged.
“You do.”
“What?”
“You think because you love someone, you have to be scared all the time.”
Chloe stared at him.
“Where did that come from?”
“I'm sick, not stupid.”
Three days later, Victor invited Tommy to the estate for Christmas dinner.
Chloe refused.
Tommy accepted.
That was how, on December 24, Chloe found herself standing beneath a twelve-foot Christmas tree in Victor Russo's mansion while Tommy beat one of Chicago's most feared men at chess.
“Checkmate,” Tommy announced.
Victor stared at the board.
“That isn't checkmate.”
“It absolutely is.”
Victor examined it.
Tommy grinned.
“Want me to explain?”
“No.”
“You look upset.”
“I am considering sending you home.”
“Chloe says threats are how emotionally constipated men communicate.”
Chloe nearly dropped her wine.
“Tommy!”
Victor slowly turned toward her.
She covered her face.
“I did not say that about you specifically.”
Marcus burst out laughing.
Victor looked back at Tommy.
“Your sister talks too much.”
“Yeah. We know.”
For one evening, the Russo estate felt almost normal.
After dinner, Tommy fell asleep on the couch.
Chloe found Victor standing alone beside the Christmas tree.
“Thank you.”
“For dinner?”
“For making him forget.”
Victor glanced toward Tommy.
“Forget what?”
“That he's sick.”
Something passed between them.
Chloe stepped closer.
“You're different with him.”
“So are you.”
“He's my brother.”
Victor looked at her.
“And you're terrified.”
She lowered her eyes.
Victor reached out.
His fingers brushed hers.
Neither moved away.
Then Marcus entered.
His face erased the warmth from the room.
“Victor.”
Victor turned.
One word was enough.
“What happened?”
Marcus looked at Chloe, then back at him.
“We found something.”
“Say it.”
“Someone accessed Tommy Bennett's medical records yesterday.”
Chloe went pale.
Victor's expression became deadly.
“Who?”
“We don't know yet.”
Marcus paused.
“But whoever did it used credentials connected to one of our companies.”
Victor looked toward the sleeping teenager.
Then at Chloe.
The peaceful Christmas evening vanished.
Someone inside Victor Russo's organization had taken an interest in the one weakness he had never intended to have.
Chloe Bennett.
And now they knew exactly where to hurt her.