Chapter 3 - THE SAFE HOUSE BY THE LAKE
The SUV lurked down a private, iron-gated driveway hidden deep within the dense trees surrounding Lake Michigan.
The estate rose out of the mist like a modern fortress—shining glass, dark timber, and concrete walls surrounded by high-tech security cameras. As soon as the vehicle stopped in the subterranean garage, four armed guards rushed to open the doors.
"Is the perimeter clear?" Julian demanded as he stepped out, offering a hand to help his father.
"Yes, Don Julian," the lead guard replied. "The tail was cut off near the highway. It was the Marcone crew testing our routes."
Julian’s jaw tightened. "They're getting bold." He turned back toward the SUV where I was still cowering in the backseat. "Miss Wells. Come inside."
"I really should go home," I pleaded, holding my ratty coat tightly around my shoulders. "My landlord... if I'm not back..."
"Your landlord won't bother you," Julian said flatly. "And right now, the streets aren't safe. Marcone’s men saw you in this car. If they track you back to your apartment, they will use you to get to me."
My heart did a terrifying drop. "Use me? I don't even know you!"
"Which is why you are staying here tonight," Julian commanded, leaving no room for argument. "Leo, show her to the guest suite on the second floor. Get her clean clothes."
Twenty minutes later, I found myself standing in a bathroom larger than my entire studio apartment. The fixtures were brushed gold, the towels were thick white cotton, and steam rose from a massive marble tub. On the counter lay a set of soft gray silk pajamas and a fresh medical kit.
I washed the grease from my skin, watched the black city soot run down the drain, and bandaged my scraped palm. For the first time in three years, I felt clean. But the golden cage I was in felt far more dangerous than the leaky ceiling of my South Side flat.
I couldn't sleep. The quiet of the massive house was deafening after the constant roar of the city.
At 2:00 a.m., I padded down the carpeted hallway in my bare feet, searching for the kitchen to get a glass of water. As I passed a set of heavy mahogany double doors, I heard a quiet, distressed murmur.
I peeked through the crack in the door.
Arthur was sitting on the edge of a massive four-poster bed, clutching his shoe, crying silently in the dim lamplight. Standing before him was Julian. The terrifying mob boss was down on one knee, holding his father's hands, his own head bowed against the old man's knees.
"I can't find her, Julian," Arthur sobbed softly. "I looked everywhere in the dark. She's lost."
"I know, Dad," Julian whispered, his voice thick with a raw, agonizing sorrow that shattered the tough armor he wore outside. "I miss her too."
I stepped back, my chest aching. The ruthless predator who ran Chicago’s underground was holding together the broken pieces of his father's mind with his bare hands.
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As I moved to retreat, my foot caught the edge of a floor runner. The door creaked open.
Julian’s head snapped toward me. In a fraction of a second, he was on his feet, his hand sliding inside his jacket. But when his dark eyes met mine, he froze.
