Chapter 6 - THE ASHES OF SAINT JUDE’S
The words hung in the warm air of the bedroom like poison.
A five-million-dollar bounty.
Norah’s breath hitched.
Her hand instinctively gripped the cashmere blanket.
She had thought the nightmare was ending.
Instead, the circle was tightening.
Declan did not flinch.
He stood in the center of the room, his silhouette cast long and dark against the firelight.
His eyes narrowed to cold obsidian slits.
“Who sanctioned the tribunal?” Declan asked.
His voice had zero inflection.
It was the terrifying silence before an avalanche.
“Don Carlo Falcone,” Liam answered.
“Arthur Sterling called him directly thirty minutes ago.”
“They’re meeting at the Palmer House downtown at midnight.”
Declan glanced over his shoulder at Norah.
She looked so small against the massive headboard.
Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim light.
Her split lip was swollen, and the bruise along her jaw had turned a deep, angry plum.
Yet her chin was lifted.
She wasn't crying anymore.
That quiet, stubborn resilience was what had caught his attention three years ago.
She was not a mob boss’s daughter.
She was not an heiress hardened by violence.
She was an ordinary woman who had absorbed months of torture to protect her sick sister.
Declan walked back to the edge of the bed.
He reached down and took her small hand into his own.
His large fingers wrapped firmly around hers.
“You are under Hayes protection, Norah,” Declan said.
Every syllable was heavy with absolute authority.
“That means my name is your armor.”
“No one in this city will touch you.”
“I have to see Clara first,” Norah whispered.
Her voice was raw, but firm.
“I need to see her with my own eyes, Declan. Please.”
Declan nodded once.
He didn't let go of her hand as she slid off the mattress.
He supported her weight as they walked down the carpeted hallway.
Two guards armed with submachine guns stood outside room 204.
They bowed their heads respectfully as Declan approached.
Declan pushed the door open.
The room had been transformed into an elite private hospital suite.
Monitors hummed softly in the corner, displaying steady, rhythmic heartlines.
In the center of the bed lay Clara.
She was nineteen years old, with the same dark curls as Norah.
Her face was peaceful.
Color had already begun to return to her cheeks thanks to the fresh medication.
A silver-haired physician in a white coat looked up from a clipboard.
“Dr. Henderson,” Declan said.
“How is she?”
“Stable, Mr. Hayes,” the doctor whispered.
“The malnutrition was severe, and they had withheld her immunosuppressants for at least forty-eight hours.”
“A few more days in that warehouse clinic and she would have gone into systemic organ failure.”
Norah covered her mouth, a fresh sob catching in her throat.
“Will she recover?” Norah asked.
Dr. Henderson offered a gentle smile.
“With the regimen we’ve started tonight? Absolutely.”
“She’s out of danger, Miss Jenkins.”
Norah fell to her knees beside the bed.
She took Clara’s limp hand and pressed it against her wet cheek.
“I’m here, baby,” Norah whispered, kissing Clara’s knuckles.
“You’re safe now. I promise. You’re safe.”
Declan watched from the doorway.
A foreign ache tightened in his chest.
For ten years, his world had consisted of numbers, bullets, betrayal, and power.
He had believed he was hollow inside.
He had believed the mafia life had burned away whatever humanity he once possessed.
Seeing Norah kneeling beside her sister proved him wrong.
He stepped back into the hallway and pulled the door shut.
Liam was waiting.
“Mobilise the vanguard,” Declan ordered.
“Boss?”
“Every soldier in the South Side division.”
“I want forty men surrounding this estate.”
“Snipers on the tree line. Infrared sensors across the perimeter.”
Declan adjusted the cuffs of his dark shirt.
“And call the motorcade.”
“Are we going to the tribunal at the Palmer House?” Liam asked.
Declan’s lips curled into a cold, merciless smirk.
“No.”
“We’re not going to a meeting, Liam.”
“We’re going to a funeral.”
“Whose?”
May you like
Declan turned toward the grand staircase.
“Arthur Sterling’s.”
