Chapter 10
1489 Words
The afternoon sun poured down over the city, casting golden streaks through the windows of shops and cafes as Aurelia and Maybelle wandered down Halsted Street. The streets were louder than usual—bustling with hushed conversations, eyes darting, whispers floating between corners like smoke.
Aurelia paused near a group of men gathered around a newspaper stand. One of them, a wiry guy with tobacco-stained fingers and a gravel voice, leaned in close to another and muttered just low enough to catch her attention.
“Word is one of Cane’s warehouses went up in flames last night. Burned to the ground.”
“No s**t?” the second man replied, his eyes wide. “You think it’s the Veronas?”
“Nah,” the first man said, voice lowering to a whisper. “They say it’s that kid—Spencer. The one they call The Black Devil. Just came back from New York. Little DJ. Said he’s takin’ the city back.”
Aurelia’s entire body stilled.
Her heart jumped, thudding so loudly in her chest she could barely hear anything else. Her breath hitched as if her soul had just yanked on the emergency brake. DJ? Back in Chicago?
The world around her blurred for a second.
“Lia!” Maybelle called, tugging her hand. “Come on, girl, I wanna check out that dress shop before it gets too crowded.”
Aurelia blinked herself back to the present, her feet moving on instinct as she followed Maybelle down the street—though her mind was spinning.
Could it really be him?
Could DJ be back?
The boutique was warm and smelled faintly of lavender and new fabric. It was one of those hidden gems tucked between a bakery and a bookstore, the kind of place only locals knew. The saleswoman offered a smile and wave as the girls entered.
Maybelle darted straight to a rack of silk dresses, fingers dancing over the threads. “Alright, alright,” she said. “We need somethin’ spicy for tonight. Somethin’ that screams trouble.”
Aurelia forced a smile, though her thoughts still swirled around what she heard. She ran her fingers along the clothes half-heartedly until a flash of red caught her eye. A deep cherry-red flapper dress hung on a mannequin near the window—silk, sleeveless, V-neckline with beads that shimmered subtly in the light. One side of the dress was hiked up, revealing a teasing view of leg.
She stepped toward it slowly, almost in a trance. Maybelle appeared beside her and let out a long, dramatic gasp.
“Girl. Girl. That thing was made for you.”
Aurelia gave a soft laugh. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”
Maybelle raised an eyebrow. “You try that on, and the men in that club are gonna be trippin’ over their tongues.”
Minutes later, in the small fitting room, Aurelia slipped into the red dress. She stared at herself in the mirror—her soft blonde waves cascading around her bare shoulders, the way the silk clung to her figure like a lover’s embrace. The red against her creamy skin made her blue eyes pop, and for once, she didn’t feel like the sweet girl next door. She looked dangerous.
She stepped out, and Maybelle clapped a hand over her mouth. “Ohhhhhhh hell no. You’re gonna cause a riot.”
Aurelia laughed as she did a small twirl. “It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
Maybelle turned, holding a cream-colored silk number that hugged her own curves in all the right ways. “I’m feelin’ myself too. Look out, Chicago.”
But before they could revel in their shared glow-up, the door swung open.
Wyatt Cane strolled in like he owned the air, and the mood instantly dropped ten degrees. He was still dressed in last night’s smugness—pressed slacks, white suspenders, and that same cruel grin.
His dark eyes locked on Aurelia like a predator finding his prey.
“Well, well,” he drawled. “Is that little number for me?”
Aurelia tensed. Her smile faltered. “It’s… just for the club,” she said softly.
He stepped closer, his gaze slowly dragging down her form. “You know,” he said, raising a finger and gently tracing the curve of her collarbone, “that dress would look even better on my bedroom floor.”
Aurelia’s body froze. Her breath hitched.
Maybelle stiffened nearby, her jaw clenched, eyes narrowed—but just before she could speak, another man stepped into the shop. Wyatt’s crew. He leaned in close and whispered something in Wyatt’s ear.
Wyatt’s jaw ticked. His good mood evaporated like morning fog.
He looked back at Aurelia, expression sharpening into something more possessive. “Don’t forget about that second date,” he said smoothly, flashing her a wink. “I’ve got plans for you.”
He turned to leave but not before casting a sneer at Maybelle.
When the door shut behind him, the tension in the air snapped like a rubber band.
Aurelia exhaled sharply, her hands still gripping the dress fabric. “God,” she whispered. “He’s suffocating.”
Maybelle crossed her arms. “No, girl. He’s a pig. In all caps. PIG.”
They exchanged a look—one that spoke louder than words. Something was changing in the air. And the rumors whether it was DJ’s return… or Wyatt’s growing obsession…
Trouble was closing in fast.
Wyatt Cane stormed down the narrow alley behind the dress shop, his shoes snapping against the pavement like gunshots. His broad shoulders were tense, fists clenched, lips tight. His eyes—once lazy and smug—now burned with frustration.
She was right there.
Aurelia.
That dress.
His jaw twitched again at the memory of her in that cherry red silk—how it hugged her body in all the right ways, the way her creamy thighs peeked out through that slit when she shifted her weight. The gentle curve of her neck, that soft breath she took when he touched her.
She was his. She just didn’t know it yet.
And he would’ve had her. Right there in that damn dressing room if his i***t crew hadn’t interrupted. Wyatt stopped mid-step and spun around, snarling at the man who dared pull him away from his moment.
“This better be worth my f*****g time,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.
The thug—a wiry man named Vince—nodded nervously and motioned for him to follow. “One of the guards made it out, boss. Says he saw who hit the warehouse.”
Wyatt’s glare deepened. He shoved past Vince and ducked into the safehouse—a dim, smoke-slicked backroom behind a butcher shop where blood wasn’t always just from meat.
Inside, one of his surviving guards sat slumped in a chair, blood soaked his pant leg. Wyatt recognized him. Freddie. Dumb, but loyal.
The man struggled to stand when Wyatt entered, but he only managed a crooked bow of his head.
Wyatt folded his arms. “Talk.”
Freddie swallowed hard. “We—uh—we didn’t see ‘em comin’. They hit hard, fast. Knew the layout, boss. Blew the crates, lit up the back wall—like they didn’t give a damn.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrowed, his fists clenching at his sides.
Freddie hesitated, licking cracked lips. “It was that guy. DJ. Black guy from New York. Said… said he owns this city now.”
Wyatt’s expression went still.
His nostrils flared.
Then, suddenly, his composure shattered.
“He what?” he growled, stepping forward like a storm.
Freddie flinched. “He spared me… told me to tell you—”
Wyatt didn’t let him finish.
With a scream of rage, he lunged.
His fists cracked into Freddie’s jaw, then his ribs, then his face again. Over and over. Blood sprayed across the floor and walls. Freddie cried out once, then again, then nothing.
DJ’s words echoed in Wyatt’s head like a siren.
He owns the city now.
He owns the city now.
Wyatt beat the man until his knuckles were raw, his breathing ragged, his white shirt drenched in crimson. Freddie slumped lifeless in the chair, face unrecognizable.
Wyatt staggered back, shaking, his chest rising and falling like a caged beast. Vince stared in silent horror as blood pooled beneath the chair.
Wyatt wiped his hands on Freddie’s shirt, smearing red across the fabric like war paint.
“Put a price on that spook’s head,” Wyatt spat through clenched teeth. “Twenty-five grand. Alive.”
He looked up, eyes blazing.
“I want him and his boys crawling to me, broken and begging like the dogs they are.”
He stormed past Vince, grabbing a bottle of bourbon from the table and taking a long, hard swig.
“No one humiliates me,” he muttered. “No one.”
- Writer
