Chapter 2 - The Forbidden Touch
Across the forward bulkhead of the private jet, Luigi—Deari’s lifelong enforcer, chief of security, and shadow—stopped mid-sentence while reviewing a weapons manifest.
The low murmur of conversation in the cabin died instantly.
Two armed bodyguards stationed near the galley froze, their hands hovering near their tactical holsters. A rookie operative near the cockpit door instinctively shifted his weight, his fingers twitching toward the concealed SIG Sauer beneath his jacket.
Every single man in that cabin knew the cardinal rule of the Hamilton empire.
You do not touch Deari Hamilton.
It was an unwritten, ironclad law forged in blood and power. Men who had laundered billions for him, negotiated truces with Russian arms dealers, or stood beside him in crossfire for a decade still waited for explicit, verbal permission before sitting uninvited at his table. He despised familiarity, detested unexpected contact, and treated personal space as a heavily fortified demilitarized zone.
An assassin coming at him with a stiletto blade would have triggered less absolute, paralyzed shock than a sleep-deprived twenty-four-year-old secretary resting her head on his collarbone.
For one breathless second, the cabin was so quiet that even the jet engines seemed to hold their breath.
Deari went completely, unnaturally rigid.
His body locked up as if an electrical current had surged through his frame. His jaw tightened until the muscle ticked violently beneath his skin. Downward, his gaze shifted, falling upon the soft, brown waves of hair resting against the immaculate charcoal wool of his expensive Brioni suit jacket.
He saw the dark, bruised circles carved deep beneath her closed eyes.
He saw the tiny, stubborn ink stain on her right index finger—evidence of thirty-six hours of manual ledger reconciliation.
He saw the slight, defenseless hitch in her breathing as her body finally surrendered to the deep, heavy sleep she had denied herself for nearly two days.
Luigi took one slow, agonizing step forward down the aisle, his hand raised in a cautious, defensive gesture. “Boss,” Luigi muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Shall I—?”
Deari slowly raised two fingers of his left hand.
Luigi stopped dead in his tracks.
Not a single word was spoken. But in the silent, terrifying hierarchy of the Hamilton organization, the gesture was absolute and unmistakable.
Do not touch her. Do not wake her.
The bodyguards let out collective, silent exhales, their shoulders dropping an inch. But the tension in the cabin remained electric.
Caitlyn shifted in her sleep. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips, warm breath ghosting against the crisp cotton of Deari’s bespoke dress shirt. Instinctively, seeking warmth and stability in her state of utter exhaustion, she leaned in closer, her cheek pressing more firmly against his shoulder, her arm draping awkwardly over the solid wall of his chest.
Deari stared down at her, his dark eyes wide with a strange, foreign expression that no living soul had ever witnessed on his face.
Slowly, with infinite, calculated precision so as not to jar her awake, Deari reached across his own body. His large, scarred hand—a hand that had signed death warrants and closed multi-billion-dollar mergers—gently intercepted Caitlyn’s tablet before it could slide off her lap and smash onto the carpet. With a fluid motion, he darkened the screen, powered it down, and slid it safely into the side pocket of his desk.
Then, performing an action that would have shocked the underworld from Moscow to Palermo, Deari Hamilton shifted his posture. He deliberately adjusted his shoulder, angling it downward to create a softer, more stable pillow for the sleeping woman, anchoring her against him so she wouldn't slip.
He leaned back against his leather headrest, crossed his arms over his chest beneath her resting form, and stared straight ahead into the blue cabin light.
Two hours to Teterboro, Deari thought grimly to himself, listening to the soft, rhythmic cadence of his secretary’s breathing against his heart.
May you like
Let the flight path burn. Let the markets crash.
For the next two hours, the most dangerous man in the Western Hemisphere was officially immobilized.
