Chapter 2 - Shadows at the Door
The Chicago night was bitter and damp, the wind howling off Lake Michigan like a wounded beast.
Naomi sat in the back of Daniel’s armored Maybach, clutching her bandaged hand against her chest. The plush leather smelled of cedar, expensive tobacco, and Daniel Whitfield himself. The mafia boss sat beside her in stony silence, his jaw set in a line of carved granite, watching the streetlights flicker across the bulletproof glass.
“Mr. Whitfield,” Naomi said quietly, breaking the oppressive silence. “You don't need to drive me home. Marco could have called a cab. Sophie is with Mrs. Higgins down the hall, and—”
“You are not going back to your apartment,” Daniel interrupted, not looking away from the window.
Naomi felt her breath hitch. “Excuse me?”
“Your apartment is no longer secure.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I live on the third floor of a crumbling walk-up in Pilsen,” Naomi said, panic lacing her voice. “Nobody cares about where I live. Miss Cole was just furious. She won’t come after me.”
Daniel turned his gaze toward her. His gray eyes were bottomless, stripped of all warmth. “Vanessa Cole is the least of your concerns tonight, Naomi.”
He tapped the privacy glass. The partition lowered two inches.
“Marco.”
“Yes, boss?”
“What do the street cams show outside Naomi’s building?”
Marco didn’t hesitate. “Two black Suburbans with tinted plates parked half a block down since eight o’clock. Another sedan idling in the alley behind the fire escape. They aren’t Cole’s usual crew. These men are wearing military-grade comms.”
Naomi’s stomach plummeted into a cold void. “What? Who would be watching my building? I don’t owe anyone money. I work, I buy groceries, and I take care of Sophie. That’s my entire life!”
Daniel reached out, his thumb brushing against the back of her uninjured hand. The touch was unexpectedly gentle, sending an electric shiver through her arms. “Someone paid half a million dollars this morning to track your daily routine, Naomi. And they didn’t care about you. They were tracking Sophie.”
The mention of her five-year-old child tore through Naomi’s composure like shrapnel. She grabbed Daniel’s arm, abandoning all maid-employer decorum. “Sophie! Oh God, Daniel, please! We have to get her! If anyone touches her, I’ll—”
“Breathe,” Daniel commanded, his voice deep and anchoring. “Look at me. Look at my eyes, Naomi.”
She looked up into his fierce, unyielding gaze.
“I have two teams already on site,” Daniel said, his fingers tightening reassuringly over hers. “They secured your daughter ten minutes ago. Mrs. Higgins was compensated and placed in a safehouse. Sophie is currently in the transport vehicle behind us, asleep, holding her stuffed rabbit. Not a hair on her head has been touched.”
A choked sob broke from Naomi’s throat. Relief hit her so hard she leaned forward, her forehead almost touching Daniel’s chest. The adrenaline that had sustained her through the ballroom disaster evaporated, leaving her trembling violently.
Daniel didn’t pull away. Instead, he placed an arm around her shoulders, shielding her against the chill of the night. For two years, he had watched her dust his library, serve tea to ruthless men, and endure the subtle cuts of Chicago’s aristocracy with an iron dignity. He had never seen her break.
Seeing her break now, over her child, ignited a dark, predatory fire in his chest.
“Who is after us?” she whispered against his lapel.
“I don’t know yet,” Daniel admitted grimly. “Fifteen years ago, my brother David supposedly died in a warehouse fire set by Victor Cole. Tonight, David sent me a message through your cake. And he told me that keeping your daughter alive is the only way to uncover the truth.”
Naomi pulled back slowly, her eyes wide with bewilderment. “Your brother? But I never met your brother! I was fifteen years old fifteen years ago, living in Michigan with my grandmother! I never even visited Chicago until three years ago!”
Daniel studied the fine contours of her face—the arch of her cheekbones, the slight cleft in her chin, the piercing, luminous blue of her irises. Features that felt hauntingly familiar, yet just out of reach.
“We will find the answers,” Daniel said. “Together.”
The car turned off Lake Shore Drive and entered the private underground gate of the Whitfield Tower, the pinnacle of Daniel’s empire. As the hydraulic iron gates slammed shut behind them, sealing them off from the city, Marco glanced into the rearview mirror.
“Boss. Victor Cole’s direct line is flashing on the console.”
Daniel pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and switched it off.
“Let him sweat,” Daniel said coldly. “Take Miss Carter and her daughter to the penthouse suite. Post four armed guards at every elevator bank. Nobody enters without my personal iris scan.”
“Understood, Mr. Whitfield.”
The car stopped. When Daniel opened the door, he didn’t wait for Naomi to climb out on her own. He stepped out, reached down, and effortlessly lifted her out of the seat, cradling her against his chest.
“Sir! I can walk!” Naomi gasped, her cheeks flushing hot despite the damp air.
“You’ve lost blood, and you’re shaking,” Daniel murmured, carrying her toward the private elevator. Behind them, two of his men carried a bundle wrapped in pink blankets—Sophie, fast asleep, clutching her bunny.
As the elevator ascended forty floors into the clouds, Daniel looked down at the woman in his arms.
May you like
The maid who had brought him a birthday cake had just upended his entire world. And looking at her now, he realized he would tear Chicago to pieces before he let anyone take her or her child.
***
