Chapter 3 - THE HIGHWAY CONVOY
The Maybach tore through the slush on Lake Shore Drive at ninety miles per hour.
Three black Suburbans flanked us, their high-intensity strobes cutting through the blinding winter mist.
Dr. Chen worked with cold, mechanical efficiency.
He injected a local nerve block into the brachial plexus of my left shoulder.
The burning fire in my arm dissolved into a heavy, frozen numbness.
He manipulated the fractured radius bone back into alignment with two sharp, practiced movements.
I bit my lip until blood welled, refusing to cry out in front of the man who held my head in his lap.
Dr. Chen wrapped my forearm in a rigid, lightweight carbon-fiber splint.
He taped my ribs with wide, elastic compression bandages.
"She needs a hospital for formal imaging, Don Valin," Dr. Chen said, wiping his instruments with alcohol pads.
"She has internal bruising around the spleen."
"No hospitals," Rhett said without hesitation.
"The Commission monitors every trauma ward in Cook County."
"Take her to the mansion."
"Set up the surgical suite in the west wing."
Dr. Chen bowed his head.
"Yes, sir."
Rhett looked down at me.
His fingers were still tangled in my hair, resting gently against my scalp.
"You're going to sleep now, Isa."
"No," I gasped, fighting the heavy fog of the pain medication creeping through my veins.
"Tell me about the card game."
"You need to rest."
"Rhett, please!"
My voice was thin, reedy, desperate.
"Fourteen months I made your coffee."
"Fourteen months I ironed your shirts."
"You watched me walk with a limp every rainy Tuesday."
"You knew what he did to me."
Rhett’s hand went completely still against my temple.
A muscle ticked along his jawline with such violent force that I thought the skin would tear.
"Four years ago, your father was the senior accountant for the Moretti family," Rhett said quietly.
"He stole eight million dollars from the South Side docks."
"The Morettis wanted his skin."
"Your father came to my underground club on State Street."
"He begged my father for sanctuary."
The car hit an icy patch, fishtailing slightly before the traction control seized the asphalt.
"My father refused," Rhett continued, his voice dropping into a register that chilled the heated cabin.
"Your father had nothing left to offer."
"Except a marriage contract."
"A legal alliance with the Vance family to secure the northern territory."
I closed my eyes as the memories flooded back.
The sudden wedding in the private chapel in Cicero.
My father crying into his hands in the front pew.
Julian’s cruel, victorious smile as he slipped the heavy gold band onto my finger.
"Julian’s father, Marcus Vance, sat at my poker table that night," Rhett whispered.
"I was twenty-six."
"Arrogant."
"I had three aces."
"Marcus raised the bet with the unsealed marriage contract your father had just signed."
"He told me that whoever won the hand won the alliance."
"And the girl."
A tear slipped from my lash line, hot and bitter against Rhett’s tailored trousers.
"You lost," I whispered.
"Marcus had a straight flush," Rhett said.
His voice broke, just for a fraction of a second, revealing a chasm of ancient, buried fury.
"I watched Julian walk out of that club with your name on his paper."
"Three months later, my father was poisoned."
"I spent three years fighting for the throne of this family."
"And by the time I took total control of Chicago..."
He leaned down until his breath brushed my forehead.
"You had vanished from Julian’s estate."
"I didn't vanish," I sobbed quietly.
"I crawled out through a basement coal chute while he was in New York."
"I lived in a women's shelter for six months."
"I dyed my hair."
"I changed my name."
"I applied for a job as a cleaning woman in the biggest, most terrifying house in the city."
I opened my eyes, looking directly into his amber gaze.
"Because I thought the great Don Valin was the only predator in Chicago that Julian Vance would never dare approach."
Rhett’s hand cupped my cheek.
His thumb wiped away the salt on my skin.
"You were right, Isa."
"He will never approach you again."
Suddenly, the Maybach took a violent, sickening swerve to the right.
The sound of an explosion rattled the bulletproof glass.
The front windshield spiderwebbed with white fractures as shrapnel sprayed across the hood.
In the front seat, Leo slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
"RPG on the highway overpass!" Leo roared over the internal comms.
"The rear escort vehicle is burning!"
Through the side window, two heavy dump trucks bore down on our convoy from the snowy access ramp.
May you like
Julian’s father hadn't waited for the six o'clock council.
The Vance syndicate had just declared war on Lake Shore Drive.
