Deep Read online

  Deep

  Number VII of Chicago Underground

  Skye Warren

  (2016)

  * * *

  Tags: Dark, Adult, Romance

  Darkttt Adultttt Romancettt

  Deep: A Chicago Underground Series novel

  "Possessive. Protective. Territorial. Philip Murphy is exactly what I want in an alpha-male!" - Lynda Chance, New York Times bestselling author

  A thrilling new standalone novel from New York Times bestselling author Skye Warren...

  Dark. Powerful. Dangerous.

  Philip Murphy has all of Chicago under his thumb. Except me.

  We met in a perfect storm of violence and lust. He saved me and then disappeared from my life. Now I pretend I never knew that kind of darkness. I focus on midterms and campus parties, as if they can wipe the slate clean.

  Then he turns up outside my dorm room--wounded and barely conscious. He's the head of a criminal empire, a powerful man, but he needs me now. There are traitors in his midst.

  I can help him, but I can't fall for him.

  Not again.

  * * *

  Author's Note: DEEP is a dark contemporary romance novel that can be read as a standalone! It's set in the Chicago Underground world, and you are invited to read those books next once you read Philip's story.

  Praise for DEEP:

  "Intriguing, raw and captivating through the end, this book sizzles with intensity and achingly real characters. Do not miss this!" Lina's Reviews, A Book Blog

  "Deep is an incredibly erotic, emotionally captivating story that left me craving for more. Skye Warren consistently delivers raw, powerful, and seductive writing that grabs ahold of the reader with full force and doesn't let go." - Sammy, Just Let Me Read

  "Philip and Ella's chemistry is explosive and the loves scenes made my heart skip a beat. Some of the things he says to Ella made my heart palpitate. Philip is so full of passion and he pushes Ella past her limits, he breaks her down and puts her back together again." - Kimberly, The Book Sirens

  **

  Review

  What readers are saying about DEEP...

  "Skye Warren's books always have me teetering on the edge between shock and bliss. This time, the edge has a name. Philip. Dark, toxic, overpoweringly sensual Philip." - Babel Literaria

  "Skye Warren had me on the edge of my seat, biting my fingernails and shivering with pent up emotion. I was sucked in and hooked from the very beginning. I loved it!" - Alpha Book Club

  "Intriguing, raw and captivating through the end, this book sizzles with intensity and achingly real characters. Do not miss this!" Lina's Reviews, A Book Blog

  "Deep is an incredibly erotic, emotionally captivating story that left me craving for more. Skye Warren consistently delivers raw, powerful, and seductive writing that grabs ahold of the reader with full force and doesn't let go." - Sammy, Just Let Me Read

  "Philip and Ella's chemistry is explosive and the love scenes made my heart skip a beat. Some of the things he says to Ella made my heart palpitate. Philip is so full of passion and he pushes Ella past her limits, he breaks her down and puts her back together again." - Kimberly, The Book Sirens

  About the Author

  Skye Warren is the New York Times bestselling author of dark romance. Don't miss a release! Find out about new releases and exclusive giveaways here: skyewarren.com/newsletter And like Skye Warren on Facebook here: facebook.com/skyewarren Thank you for reading! <3

  Deep

  Skye Warren

  Dark. Powerful. Dangerous.

  Philip Murphy has all of Chicago under his thumb. Except me.

  We met in a perfect storm of violence and lust. He saved me and then disappeared from my life. Now I pretend I never knew that kind of darkness. I focus on midterms and campus parties, as if they can wipe the slate clean.

  Then he turns up outside my dorm room—wounded and barely conscious. He’s the head of a crime syndicate, a powerful man, but he needs me now. There are traitors in his midst.

  I can help him, but I can’t fall for him.

  Not again.

  Prologue

  THERE ARE MOMENTS like earthquakes in your life, when the ground splits open and nothing will ever be the same. My first moment came in fourth grade, when I got an assignment to create a family tree. I applied myself like the good little student that I was at the time, making an actual tree from construction paper and Elmer’s glue.

  This is where you come from, Mrs. Fitzpatrick had said when my classmates had complained about the project. This is who you are.

  My parents seemed different the moment I told them about the project, more subdued and standoffish—which was saying something for them. So I did like always and threw myself into the work, as if another A+ would somehow impress them when all the rest hadn’t. I used online sites and library references to pull actual census reports and, in a couple of cases, pictures.

  I had been too naive to notice what I saw in them: blue eyes and pale brown hair ran in the family. Like my brother and my mother. Only my father had darker hair—I suppose I always assumed I got it from him. But none of them had the faintly olive toned skin or the full shape of my mouth.

  During that presentation I learned that Jennifer had Native American heritage, which explained why her eyes were so pretty. And Brittney’s grandmother was part Creole—I wasn’t sure what that was, but she had curly black hair that always looked windswept.

  “Where is our family from?” I asked when I got home from school that day.

  “Brooklyn,” my mother said.

  “I know that. I mean, I know Grandpa moved to Chicago because he got laid off. But before that, like our ancestors.”

  Her lips pressed together in that way that meant she was hiding something. Kids had a sense about these things. “From lots of places. People come from all over.”

  “Like Scotland?” Dad’s side of the family came from Scotland. I had learned that lineage while creating my presentation.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “Lots of places.”

  Why didn’t she want to tell me? I thought that was the most I would learn, but there was a fight in hushed voices in the kitchen when my dad came home. And then they both sat me down.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said, tapping me on the side of the arm. We never really hugged or cuddled. For him this was the equivalent of a great bear hug. “You know your mom and dad love you.”

  “Yes,” I said with the kind of guileless certainty only a child can have.

  “Good,” he said, sounding relieved. “We will always love you, but we think it’s time you know the truth. Your mom and I adopted you when you were a baby.”

  I felt the ground shift, felt it open wide—a dark chasm stretching beneath me, waiting for me to fall. I stared at them, unable to speak, unable to think.

  Mom attempted to smile. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but honey, you’re like our own child. Just like Tyler.”

  My brother. “Is he…” I had to force the word out. “Is he adopted too?”

  They shared a long glance. “No,” my father said finally. “He’s ours.”

  He was theirs, and I…wasn’t.

  This is where you come from. This is who you are. And for the first time in my life, I had no idea who that was.

  That was when I stopped wondering why they always seemed to favor my younger brother, when I stopped trying to desperately please them with good grades and obedience and presents that said Best Mom in the World. That was when I started rebelling, wearing makeup and starting fights—eventually hanging out with the wrong crowd at skate parks and underground raves.

  It was my first earthquake, but it wouldn’t be my last.

  It wouldn’t even be the biggest one.

  As many big things do, that one came
in the form of a man. I met him when I was a child and he was a grown-up. I met him when I was nobody and nothing—and he was already rich and powerful. I met him when I was in danger and he was the most dangerous man in the city.

  Chapter One

  THE THING ABOUT not knowing where you came from, you can make up whatever story you want. And when you’re that desperate for acceptance, you make it a good one. The handsome father would carry me around on his shoulders. The beautiful mother ached at the thought of leaving me alone with the nanny for even a few hours. A dark night, slippery roads. Crash.

  I was desperate, not stupid. I knew the more likely story involved a druggie teenage mom and a dad in prison or something like that. Still, I held on to that dream—until the world cracked underneath me for the second time.

  Purple and blue lights flashed across the faces of my friends.

  Friends. Well, they were people I spent time with. I knew most of their names. Some of them sold drugs; some of them bought drugs. Sometimes they traded places.

  What am I doing here?

  I didn’t have an answer, and something about the air bothered me. More agitated than usual, though I couldn’t pinpoint any one thing that was different. There had been a few fights by the bar, but those were standard operating procedure—and truthfully, part of the entertainment at the Meat Market. It was called that because it used to be a meatpacking warehouse.

  And because everyone there was looking to hook up.

  “Let’s dance,” my friend Kristy said, draining the last of her fluorescent green drink.

  “Maybe later,” I said.

  It felt like there were eyes on me from behind every beaded curtain, even though I knew there were only people getting high or having sex. No one watched me here. No one noticed that I was fifteen-years-old, not really allowed. No one cared enough to notice me, just like at home.

  That thought was almost enough to make me stay, where at least I could find a boy to buy me a drink, to take me onto the dance floor, to kiss me behind one of those curtains. That wasn’t the same as love, but it was the closest thing I’d ever felt, a tin-can structure in place of a real beating heart.

  But that strange sensation raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  “I’m not feeling this,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Kristy raised her pencil-thin eyebrows. “We barely got here. I’m not leaving.”

  “Will you be okay if I leave?” I asked, because we’d split a cab here tonight.

  It had felt amazing when she had befriended me in ninth grade. I’d gone from nobody to one of the cool girls, pretty and unapproachable in the hallways of Lakeview High. Only, it was getting harder and harder to pretend that was me.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mom.”

  “Later,” I said, though I wasn’t sure there’d be a later.

  I headed toward the bathroom to make a stop before finding a cab. Was my brother Tyler still awake? Maybe we could hang out and do something, like one of the video games he liked to play.

  It was a sad thing when shoot-up video games seemed like the wholesome-entertainment option.

  That was what I longed for, though—boy band posters and friendship bracelets. Maybe even family game night. The kind of togetherness I’d never really found. Definitely not with Kristy.

  I used the restroom and studied myself in the mirror. Heavy black makeup lined my eyes, highlighting the way they slanted up a little—how different I was from my family.

  My top was glittery and showed the olive skin of my stomach. Different.

  And suddenly I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to wash the makeup off and change into a comfortable T-shirt. I didn’t magically want to spend time with my parents—who clearly didn’t want to spend time with me. They didn’t even bother pretending I should stay home when I went out, even though my brother was overprotected at every turn.

  I didn’t magically belong with them either, but I knew I didn’t belong here.

  I left the bathroom—and almost ran into a man who was waiting outside.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled and tried to go around him.

  Another man blocked my path.

  My throat went dry, and I looked up to see a few guys surrounding me. Beyond their shoulders I could see another guy standing lookout at the end of the hallway. The rush in my ears was my blood, a heavy pound of panic that in my sheltered life I’d never felt before.

  “It’s okay,” the first guy said in response to my apology. He grinned. “I was just looking for you.”

  The worst part was that he was familiar to me. “I’ve seen you before.”

  He had come to the house once, I remembered. Dad had been furious and had walked him out to the sidewalk, told him never to come back. But he had also handed over an envelope while my mother watched out the kitchen window, her lips almost white with tension. We never talked about his gambling problem. There were only loud arguments with the door closed when my brother and I were supposed to be asleep.

  The second guy didn’t smile. “Your dad owes a lot of people money.”

  My breath caught. No.

  And then they closed in on me. I fought them, and only caught blood underneath my glitter-painted nails. I screamed, but no one could hear me over the heavy beat on the dance floor.

  I want to go home. I want to go home.

  They dragged me out the back door, where a car was waiting. And I knew I wouldn’t be going home for a long time.

  *

  THEY TOOK ME to an empty tenement still in the meatpacking district and tied me to a pipe in the bathroom. There were a few men guarding me. I could see them through the crack in the door, sitting around a folding table on chairs that could barely hold their weight.

  They actually used the bathroom that I was in—and some of them missed.

  They missed on purpose, because they liked to mess with me. There were threats too. Some hands that wandered. One man spit in my face. I shivered on that broken tile floor, praying my father would pay them back.

  On the fourth day new men arrived—in suits instead of stained wifebeaters.

  One hauled me up from the floor and unlocked my handcuffs. With a rough shove he pushed me into the bathtub and turned the shower spray on. Freezing water stung my skin and soaked through my clothes. “Clean yourself up,” he told me. “You smell like piss.”

  I washed myself with harsh-smelling soap, reaching under my wet clothes to preserve my modesty. I needn’t have bothered. When I was finished, the man ripped the clothes off me.

  They had something else for me to wear: a short black dress that exposed more than it hid.

  Dread sank in my stomach. So my father hadn’t paid the debt. Of course not. Where would he have gotten the money, if he hadn’t had it before? And why would he spend it on you, when you aren’t even his real child? They weren’t cleaning me up to return me to my family. And I doubted they were dressing me up to kill me.

  They had something else in mind.

  A way for me to pay off my family’s debts, an older man explained. It looked like he was in charge, like he was the man my father owed. “One of my girls, I get a hundred dollars a hole. The way I see it, you’re worth half as much. I’m supplying all the business and you don’t know shit. Fifty bucks is a gift.”

  That’s when I got angry. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt divided by fifty dollars was…a lot. A lot of sex. A lot of abuse. And it wasn’t really my family, when you got down to it. It wasn’t my debt to pay.

  Unfortunately the man didn’t agree.

  Mouthing off only earned me a backhand and a swollen lip.

  This is where you come from, Mrs. Fitzpatrick had said. This is who you are.

  That was how I ended up in a penthouse suite when I should have been going to the high school football game. That penthouse was where I learned secrets and made a few of my own. That penthouse was where I became a woman, though not in the way that they intended.

  Chapter Two

&nb
sp; I MAY HAVE only been worth fifty dollars a hole, but they were spending a lot more than that on this party. I was taken in through the freight elevator, as if I was a piece of furniture instead of a person. The man in the suit escorted me the entire way, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of my arm. I wasn’t sure I could have walked without his support. I’d never worn four-inch heels before.

  They had tossed me a bag full of used makeup after they’d shoved me into the car. My hand had shaken as I’d used the stubby eyeliner in the cracked mirror, making myself pretty so that they could enjoy hurting me more.

  By the time we got to the door of the suite, I was sore and hungry—and mad.

  The man who opened the door looked about the same age as my father. He wore the same kind of suit, though his was rumpled now, his shirt loosened at the neck. He even had the same gray around the temples.

  But he didn’t look at me with benign affection. He didn’t look at me with bemusement, the way my dad sometimes did when he came back from a late-night card game, like he couldn’t figure out who I was and how I’d ended up in his house.

  No, this man looked at my body with pure lust.

  “Entertainment’s here, boys,” he shouted behind him, not taking his eyes off my cleavage.

  A cheer went up from a group of men I couldn’t see. Then I was stumbling forward, pushed there by the man who had brought me. I expected him to follow me inside, to make sure that I complied. Instead he left, shutting the door behind him.

  “Please,” I whispered to the man who’d opened the door. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. A flare of hope in my chest.

  “They made me come,” I said urgently, knowing I only had minutes, seconds. I could already hear the sounds of the group moving, converging on me like pack animals.