Chapter One
Olivier
“I don’t like surprises.” The irritation in my voice is rising by the second. “This isn’t what you promised me.”
“I know, and I’m sorry about that.” Tony Giovanni’s tone is pleading. “But if you’ll just sit down with me and take a closer look—”
“Tony, I was clear that I expected full transparency when we discussed me buying into your company.” I glance at my watch and lean forward in the backseat of my SUV, asking my driver Ben, “How much longer?”
He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Should be about twenty more minutes, Mr. Durand.”
I exhale hard and lean back. Ben knows I’m not pissed at him—he’s a retired Chicago cop who knows the fastest route to any destination in the city. I’m running late because my last meeting ran over.
“This deal is almost done,” Tony says from the other end of the phone. “All we have to do is sign.”
I clench my hand into a fist. “The financials would have been a technicality if they’d shown what you told me they would. But your P&L statements were way off. You lied to me about your profits from the past three years.”
Tony huffs a sigh into the phone. “I wasn’t lying. I was just making my best guess.”
“Your best guess?” I can’t help but let out an unamused laugh. “Here’s some free advice—next time you request millions of dollars to save your dying company, know the numbers. You’re either incompetent or a liar, but frankly I don’t care which, because I don’t do business with either.”
“Please, Mr. Durand. I need that money to stay afloat. I may have embellished the details, but—”
“You didn’t embellish. You lied. The deal’s off.”
I end the call and toss my phone on the seat next to me, then rub my forehead. I invested countless hours for a possible ownership stake in that plumbing supply company, and I have nothing to show for it.
Some days I wish I could focus all my energy on being the owner of the Chicago Blaze, the NHL team I bought a few years ago. That’s where my passion truly lies. I don’t work for money anymore—I’ve got plenty. I’ve always liked the challenge of turning around struggling companies. The money I make from my two tech companies allows me to invest in passion projects, and I enjoy taking something that’s broken and putting it back together.
But sometimes deals fall through. I have a mantra in business that’s never failed me—always be willing to walk away.
Hell, that mantra applies to life in general. I think about using it as the theme of a speech for the speaking engagements I do, and I start taking mental notes.
“Well, shit,” Ben mutters, slowing to a stop. “There’s an accident ahead. Scratch that twenty-minute ETA.”
“What’s going on? Can you see it?” I pick up my phone and text my assistant Jack to bump back the meeting I’m heading to.
The sound of a woman screaming sends Ben scrambling to unbuckle his seatbelt.
“I have to go up there. I might be able to help.”
Ben retired from the CPD after an injury that left him with a pretty bad limp. I don’t want him hurting himself trying to run towards an accident.
“I’ve got it, Ben,” I say, as I rush to unbuckle my seatbelt and jump out of the car before he has time to argue.
The sound of the woman screaming is amplified now that I’m out of the car. I move to the shoulder of the road and break into a run, my dress shoes squeezing my toes as I sprint.
“Somebody help! Please!” the woman’s voice cries.
Her shouting makes me run faster. I channel my early-morning treadmill sessions, pumping my arms and running as fast as I can, my heart pounding and my quads burning.
Orange flames finally come into view, and I slow as I take in the absolute chaos of the accident.
There’s a full-size conversion van with a smashed front end, skid marks showing it crossed over from the other side of the road. Two men are helping kids out of the van. And about fifty feet away, a small car is completely flipped over, tires in the air and flames alight beneath it.
“There’s someone stuck in there!” The woman who was screaming runs up to me and grabs my arm, frantic.
“How many people?” I take my suit jacket off, my mind switching into Handle-This-Emergency mode.
“I don’t know. No one has gone over there but there has to at least be a driver. I’m afraid the car will explode.”
A line of bystanders watches as I run over to the car and get on my hands and knees on the ground. The fire must be coming from the engine, and has already spread to the passenger seat. I look towards the driver’s seat. A side airbag is blocking my view, but I can see a woman’s hand hanging limp, her short nails painted pale pink. I don’t think she’s conscious, but I call out to her anyway. There’s no response. I don’t even know if she’s alive.
“The police are on the way!” a man yells from the row of bystanders. “Don’t move her! Let them do it.”
The fucking car is on fire. And with rush hour traffic and no sirens approaching, I might be this woman’s only hope.
I try to open the front door, but it’s crunched into the ground along with the roof, and it doesn’t budge at all.
“I need a knife!” I yell to the crowd. “Somebody get me a knife!”
Taking a deep breath, I open the back seat passenger door. The car is sitting at an angle, and the door won’t stay open unless I’m holding it. I grab the fabric of the car seat, the floormat—anything I can get my hands on to hoist myself up. Nothing works.
Shit. I have to get into that car. I can feel the heat from the fire, which is dangerously close to the unconscious woman. I get my hand on a piece of metal beneath the driver’s seat, and I try to pull myself up on it, but it’s not big enough.
Thoughts race through my mind. There’s no time. I can’t let this woman burn to death just because I can’t figure out how to get in this car. There has to be a way.
“I got you,” a deep voice says behind me.
I turn to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with a bald head and a determined expression. He bends down, slides his head between my legs so I’m sitting on his shoulders and stands up, raising me high enough that I can slide all the way into the back seat.
It’s hot. I cough as smoke fills my lungs, getting in my eyes and making it hard to see.
“I’ve got a knife,” the man calls out, passing it up to me. “Careful, it’s a hunting knife. It’s sharp.”
He backs up several steps, probably because this car could blow up at any moment. My heart pounds as I grab the knife handle from him.
Since I can’t see through the smoke, I rely on my hands. I run them down the back of the driver’s seat until I get to the point where the seat belt should be. I find it, but everything is so goddamn hot.
Coughing harder now, I set to work cutting through the seat belt. The flames are so close to her that this feels like an impossible task. It’s not just my will to save her, but my will not to die in this fire myself, that drives me to saw through the seat belt at her waist.