From a Throne of Crime to the Sea

The breaking point had come three months ago. It all came down to priorities.

That day, Bianca scratched her finger on a ring while trying on jewelry. At the same time, I took a knife for Julian during a shootout at the docks. Her injury was a paper-thin cut that didn't even draw blood; my wound was a gaping slash down to the bone. In the same city, our fates were worlds apart.

Julian's concern for me was a single, curt message: "Is the trouble handled?"

Meanwhile, he was lavishing attention on Bianca, summoning his private doctor for her scratch. He was so worried he joked about cutting off the jeweler’s hands: "Emergency! Who dares to harm my Principessa?"

In the photos from my informant, Bianca sat in the passenger seat of his Bentley, looking exquisitely fragile. And there I was, lying alone in a sterile, unlicensed clinic, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and disinfectant.

I watched Julian trade jokes with his men on the secure comms, my own pleas for backup lost in their banter. His silence was a sharper blade than the one that had cut into my back.

After a sleepless night, my wound wrapped in thick bandages, I went to his office. I found him staring intently at a screen, his brow furrowed over a purebred horse Bianca had taken a fancy to, as if its bloodline was a thousand times more important than my life.

"Hang on, Scarlett. Something’s off with this horse's pedigree."

He didn't even turn to look at me.

I stood outside the bulletproof glass door, watching him pick out a gift for his new prize. Over the next two hours, it dawned on me that even her most trivial whim held more weight in his heart than I ever did.

Framed on the glass door was the Person of the Year award he’d received from the Chicago Tribune last year.

At one point, his right-hand man, Nico, approached me. "Scarlett," he murmured, "Julian's still on the phone with Miss Genovese. It'll probably be another two hours…"

He gauged my reaction before adding, "Why don't you come back later?"

I stubbornly shook my head. "I'll wait for him."

Nico looked troubled.

"You might be a distraction, staying here."

Suddenly, a searing pain shot through me, and my legs gave out. Nico caught me just in time.

The commotion finally drew Julian's attention. He glanced over, his expression one of pure annoyance.

"Please escort the irrelevant person out."

He said it with the casual authority of a man having a piece of trash removed. Then, his gaze snagged on my pale face. His lips seemed to tremble, as if to ask if I was all right.

"Julian, what about that necklace…"

Bianca's delicate, sweet voice purred from the phone, and his attention snapped back to her. The flicker of concern vanished. It had lasted less than a second before dissolving into dust.

The message was clear. Stop the theatrics. Know your place. Get out before he had me thrown out. Once he was done, maybe he’d generously forward me his call log with Bianca as a pittance for my trouble.

The central air conditioning hummed, a monotonous drone. Only a wall of glass separated us. He controlled the temperature, while I shivered in the clashing currents of Chicago's residual July heat and the frigid air from the vent.

I hugged my jacket tighter, a flimsy shield against the cold, and turned for the elevator.

Five years ago, we had clawed our way up from the streets together, vowing to conquer this city.

It seemed I had to accept the painful truth—the man who once fought back-to-back with me was long gone.