Chapter 2 - The Fortress on the Lake
The heavy door of the armored sedan slammed shut with the finality of a vault sealing shut.
The moment the latch engaged, the driver slammed his foot on the accelerator. The tires shrieked against the asphalt, throwing me back into the buttery leather seat as the vehicle launched into the icy Chicago traffic.
My heart was beating in my ears like a war drum. I pressed my face against the tinted glass, watching our neighborhood fade into a blur of neon signs and snow flurries.
“You’re lying,” I choked out, whirling around to face Vincent. My fists were clenched so tightly that my fingernails cut into my palms. “This is a game to you. You’re terrorizing us because I hit you in that elevator!”
Vincent didn't even blink. He adjusted the platinum cufflinks on his wrists with effortless calm.
“If I wanted to punish you for touching me, little cleaner, you wouldn't be breathing right now,” he said, his tone devoid of cruelty, stating it as a simple, undeniable fact. “Look out the rear window.”
Trembling, I turned around on the seat and peered through the dark rear windshield.
Four blocks behind us, the third-floor corner window of my apartment building exploded outward in a violent shower of glass and orange flame. The dull, distant boom of a breaching charge shook the evening air, followed immediately by the rapid, rhythmic staccato of automatic gunfire echoing off the brick tenements.
I froze. The breath was ripped from my lungs.
That was my living room. That was where Grandma had been resting on the sofa just fifteen minutes earlier.
“Clara…” I whispered, my voice breaking into a ragged sob. I grabbed Vincent’s wool lapel with both hands, completely forgetting who and what he was. “Where is she?! What did you do with my grandmother? If she’s hurt, I swear to God I will—”
Vincent’s large, gloved hand came up and wrapped firmly around my wrists, not hurting me, but completely neutralizing my frantic struggle.
“She is in an ambulance unit two miles ahead of us, accompanied by my private physician,” he said, his gray eyes pinning mine with startling intensity. “She is safe. She is unharmed. She believes she is being relocated for an emergency medical trial funded by Hayes Global.”
Tears spilled over my eyelashes, burning against my cold cheeks. “Why are they doing this? We don’t have anything! We’re nobody!”
“You were seen in that elevator with me,” Vincent replied, his grip loosening slightly, though he did not let me go. “The Moretti family has been looking for a crack in my perimeter for three years. Last night, they managed to tap the security feeds in Hayes Tower. They saw me trapped. They saw me shield you. And most importantly, they saw you strike me and walk away alive.”
I blinked through my tears, bewildered. “That doesn't make any sense!”
“In our world, Claire, anyone who touches the head of the Hayes syndicate and keeps their hands is either a direct subordinate or someone precious,” Vincent said, his voice dropping an octave, heavy and dangerous. “To Mario Moretti, you are my weakness. And in Chicago, you eliminate a man's weakness to take his empire.”
The absurdity and horror of the situation crashed over me like a tidal wave. Because I had stood up for myself in a moment of stubborn pride, I had inadvertently painted a target on my grandmother’s back.
I slumped back into the seat, burying my face in my hands as dry sobs racked my shoulders.
“Don’t waste your tears,” Vincent said softly from beside me. “Save your energy for surviving what comes next.”
For the next forty-five minutes, the car sliced through the snowy night, leaving the grimy streets of South Chicago far behind. We traveled north along the private, winding roads bordering Lake Michigan, where towering wrought-iron gates gave way to dense pine forests.
Finally, the sedan passed through a massive stone checkpoint manned by guards armed with assault rifles and accompanied by German Shepherds. Beyond the checkpoint stood the Hayes Estate.
It wasn't just a mansion; it was an impenetrable fortress built of dark gray granite and reinforced glass, overlooking the black, freezing waves of Lake Michigan. High stone walls surrounded the perimeter, topped with razor wire and high-tech motion surveillance towers.
The car pulled up beneath a grand heated portico. Luke stepped out of the front seat and opened my door.
“Out,” Luke said gruffly, though there was a newfound wariness in his posture when he looked at me.
I stepped out onto the heated stone pavers. The freezing wind off the lake whipped my hair around my face, but before I could shiver, a heavy, warm weight was draped over my shoulders.
May you like
I looked up. Vincent had taken off his own heavy wool coat and placed it around me.
“Walk inside,” he instructed, gesturing toward the double mahogany doors. “Welcome to the only place in North America where Mario Moretti cannot touch you.”
