Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the West Suite
The west suite was larger than Willow’s entire former apartment in South Chicago.
It featured high ceilings molded with ornate plaster roses, a velvet-draped mahogany bed that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive lavender soap, and a private, marble-tiled bathroom with a deep clawfoot tub. When Mrs. Gable, the iron-willed head housekeeper whose face usually looked as though it had been carved from a block of ancient granite, escorted Willow into the room, her expression was a mask of stiff bewilderment.
“Mr. Ferrante gave direct instructions,” Mrs. Gable said stiffly, placing a stack of fresh, high-thread-count linens at the foot of the bed. “You are relieved of heavy floor duties effective immediately. You will assist in the textile archive room on the second floor. It is climate-controlled, quiet, and involves sitting down.”
Willow sat down slowly on the edge of the velvet mattress, her fingers clutching the coarse fabric of her old uniform. “Mrs. Gable... why? I yelled at him. I talked back. I’m pregnant and I lied on my application.”
The older woman paused at the door, her hand resting on the brass handle. She looked back at Willow, her stern eyes softening by a microscopic fraction.
“Mr. Ferrante does not explain his decisions, child,” Mrs. Gable said quietly. “And neither do the people who wish to remain employed in this house. Rest your feet. Doctor Evans will be here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to check your vitals.”
“Doctor... Evans?” Willow gasped. “The private physician? That costs a fortune—”
“The Ferrante family does not employ sick servants,” Mrs. Gable interrupted firmly, pulling the door closed behind her.
Left alone in the cavernous suite, Willow walked over to the tall bay window and looked out across the manicured lawns toward the iron gates of the estate. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt black and glossy under the amber glow of vintage streetlamps.
She placed her hands over her stomach, feeling a tiny, unmistakable flutter against her palm.
“What did we stumble into, little one?” she whispered into the dark glass.
Downstairs, in the high-ceilinged study lined with leather-bound volumes and ledgers of a very different nature, Veto Ferrante stood by the mahogany desk with a glass of unaged scotch in his hand.
Dante, his second-in-command and the man who managed the logistics of the family’s legitimate and illegitimate holdings, stood by the fireplace, arms crossed over his chest.
“The background check just came through, Boss,” Dante said, tossing a manila folder onto the blotter. “Willow Whitlock. Twenty-seven. Former junior archivist at the Chicago Public Library. Six months ago, her fiancé—a mid-level contractor named Marcus Vance—emptied their joint bank account, skipped town with a cocktail waitress, and left her with eighty grand in commercial debt tied to a failed restaurant venture.”
Veto’s eyes narrowed, the glass of scotch tightening in his grip. “And the child?”
“Vance told her to get rid of it before he left,” Dante continued grimly. “When she refused, he evicted her from their apartment while she was at work. She’s been sleeping in her car and working three cash-in-hand cleaning jobs until she collapsed from exhaustion.”
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the crackle of a dying log in the hearth.
Veto set his glass down on the desk with a sharp clink.
“Marcus Vance,” Veto said softly, his voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous register that made even hardened killers check their exits. “Where is he currently operating?”
“South Loop. Running a cheap framing company under a dummy corporation. Still leveraging local protection fees from small shop owners.”
Veto walked slowly toward the tall French doors leading out to the private terrace, his dark gaze fixed on the night sky.
“Send word to Vance’s creditors,” Veto commanded, his voice like grinding stones. “Call in every commercial note, every supply loan, and every outstanding lien he holds, effective immediately. I want his business dismantled by Friday noon.”
May you like
Dante smirked faintly. “And the man himself?”
“Leave him to me,” Veto replied coldly. “A man who throws a pregnant woman into the street deserves a very specific kind of education regarding asset forfeiture.”
