Chapter 2 - The Ring of St. Jude
The transition from the freezing rain to the heat of the club hit Genevieve like a physical blow.
Soft, amber lighting glowed across dark mahogany paneling, leather booths, and a long marble bar stacked with crystal decanters. Three bartenders in black vests stopped what they were doing, their eyes widening as a drenched bride in torn stockings and a mud-stained gown collapsed against the coat rack.
A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit approached her instantly, his hand hovering near his jacket lapel. He stopped when he saw her bleeding feet leaving red smudges on the Persian rug.
“Lady, this is a private club,” he said, his voice deep and cautious. “Who’s following you?”
“Preston Whitmore’s men,” Genevieve gasped, pressing her hands against her ribs, her breath ragged. “Please... don't send me back out there.”
The broad-shouldered man didn't answer. His eyes flicked past her toward the grand spiral staircase leading up to the second-floor mezzanine.
Someone was coming down, one hand resting lightly on the polished brass handrail. The staff moved aside for him without being asked, stepping back in complete silence.
Genevieve recognized Gabriel Navarro from newspaper photographs and corporate press clippings. Preston’s father had spoken of him in hushed, angry tones across dinner tables as a dangerous man—a figure who controlled the waterfront, the dock unions, and the private shipping logistics across the eastern seaboard. Preston had warned her that Navarro was a mob boss who operated above the law.
She had no reason to believe his private club was a safe place to hide, but as she looked at his cold, sharp features, she knew she had run out of choices.
Gabriel Navarro wore a tailored charcoal suit over a black shirt, open at the collar. He had silver tracing his temples, dark eyes that seemed to take in every detail of a room in half a second, and a lean, lethal grace to his movements.
He stopped five feet away from her. His gaze swept over her torn veil, her muddy gown, her scraped hands, and the bruised skin on her ankles.
Then his eyes reached her left hand.
He stopped completely.
The silence in the room stretched until the only sound left was the rain drumming violently against the reinforced skylight above.
“May I see your ring?” Gabriel asked, his voice low, gravelly, and unhurried.
Genevieve instinctively drew her left hand back toward her chest. Preston had given her the ring six months earlier—a thick gold band set with a distinct yellow canary diamond, flanked by two deep-green emeralds. It was an antique piece, heavy and unusual.
Gabriel seemed to know it.
“I need a phone,” Genevieve whispered, her voice shaking. “I need to call the harbor master... I need to reach my father's legal team...”
“You can use my phone,” Gabriel said, taking a step closer, his eyes never leaving her hand. “First, tell me whether Preston Whitmore gave you that ring.”
“Yes,” she said, her chest heaving. “He gave it to me when we were engaged.”
Gabriel turned his head slightly toward the broad-shouldered man beside him. “Declan. Check the alley. Keep those men outside. If they step onto the property, handle them.”
“Yes, boss,” Declan said, turning toward the steel door immediately.
May you like
Gabriel looked back at Genevieve. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a clean linen handkerchief, and held it out to her.
“That ring didn't belong to the Whitmore family, Miss Hayes,” Gabriel said quietly. “It belonged to my sister, Clara. And it hasn't been seen since she died nine years ago.”
