Chapter 2 - Ghosts in the White Roses
The rain showed no mercy as it lashed against the reinforced glass overhead, each heavy drop sounding like bullet casings hitting concrete. The scent of damp earth, copper, and crushed rose stems hung thick in the air.
I stood frozen beside the rusted iron framework of the greenhouse, staring down at the woman lying on the floor beneath my heavy wool coat.
Adeline Vance.
The name echoed in my head, tearing through three years of carefully cultivated coldness. On the night Rosalind died in her hospital bed, her breathing ragged and her body ruined by illness, she had gripped my hand with a terrifying strength. She had leaned up toward my ear and whispered three words: Find Adeline Vance.
When I’d asked who Adeline was, Rosalind’s heart monitor had flatlined. For three years, I had assigned my best investigators to track down any record of an Adeline Vance across the eastern seaboard. They found nothing. No birth certificates, no tax records, no driver's licenses. It was as if she were a ghost created by a dying woman's fever dream.
And now, she was lying on the wet brick floor of my dead wife’s abandoned sanctuary, holding a newborn child against her chest.
"Elias," Bernadette said softly, breaking the paralyzed silence that had settled over the room. She was wiping the baby’s small face with a clean cotton cloth, her hands steady despite the chaos around us. "We need to get them inside. The storm is coming down harder, and this girl is losing heat fast."
I shook myself out of the stupor, stepping forward and kneeling beside Adeline. Her skin was ghastly pale, covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat, and her dark hair was plastered to her forehead. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly exhausted, yet her arms were locked around the newborn like a pair of steel vice grips.
"I'm going to carry you," I said, my voice dropping into the low, command tone I used when making life-and-death decisions on the docks. "Do not fight me."
She looked at me through half-lidded, terrified eyes. "The baby..."
"I'll carry both of you," I replied.
I slid my arms beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her off the ground. She weighed almost nothing, far too light for a adult woman who had just carried a child to full term. As I pulled her against my chest, her head slumped against my shoulder, and I felt the faint, frantic rhythm of her pulse against my neck.
Bernadette walked ahead of us, holding a lantern high to illuminate the dark, flooded garden path. Rain hammered my back, soaking through my shirt as I carried them across the yard toward the rear entrance of the manor. My guards, stationed at the edge of the perimeter, snapped to attention as we crossed the patio, their eyes widening in shock as they saw their merciless boss carrying a soaked maid and a newborn baby.
"Clear the halls," I barked at my head of security, Dominic, who was standing by the back doors with an umbrella. "Lock down the main gates. Nobody comes in or out of this estate until I say so."
"Boss, the bridge is out—" Dominic began.
"I know the bridge is out," I growled, pushing past him into the warm, carpeted interior of the mansion. "Double the guards on the perimeter. If a single soul approaches the outer fence, shoot first."
We moved quickly upstairs to the guest wing—a set of rooms I hadn't opened since Rosalind's funeral. I laid Adeline down on the massive king-sized bed, while Bernadette immediately began organizing blankets, warm water, and medical supplies from the house kit.
Adeline's eyes fluttered open as her back hit the mattress. She reached out blindly, her fingers catching the lapel of my wet shirt. "Elias... don't let them..."
"Who?" I leaned over her, my hands resting on either side of her head. "Who are you running from, Adeline?"
"The same men..." she rasped, her voice tearing in her throat. "The same men who killed your wife."
A cold, lethal stillness settled over my heart.
Rosalind had died of a sudden, aggressive organ failure brought on by a rare toxin that the doctors couldn't identify in time. I had slaughtered three rival families searching for the person who poisoned her, tearing through the underground like a rabid dog, but I had never found the ultimate architect of her death.
"What do you know about Rosalind?" I asked, my fingers tightening against the bedsheets.
"She... she hid me," Adeline whispered, tears cutting clean lines through the dirt on her cheeks. "Four years ago... before she got sick. She found out what they were planning. She knew they were coming for her... so she built a place for me to hide. But they caught up to me... six months ago..."
Her eyes rolled back, and her grip on my shirt went slack.
"Adeline!" I caught her shoulders, but she was completely unconscious, overcome by exhaustion and trauma.
"Leave her be, Elias," Bernadette commanded, stepping between us with a warm basin of water. "She's passed out from shock and blood loss. If you want her to survive long enough to answer your questions, you need to let me clean her up and tend to this child."
I stood up slowly, looking down at the young woman lying on the white sheets. She looked no older than twenty-four, her face thin and bruised, bearing the distinct marks of someone who had been hunted for a very long time.
I turned on my heel and walked out of the room, shutting the heavy oak door behind me.
Dominic was waiting for me in the hallway, his hand resting on the hilt of his holstered sidearm. "Boss, what the hell is going on? Who is that girl?"
"Her name is Adeline Vance," I said, pulling a cigar from my pocket and lighting it with a snap of my silver lighter. The smoke filled the hallway, bitter and thick. "Run every piece of intelligence we have on that name. Look through Rosalind’s old private journals, her bank statements, her hidden safety deposit boxes. Look for anything tied to the Vance family."
Dominic frowned. "Vance? Like Julian Vance? The old head of the Syndicated Shipping Union down in the south district?"
I paused, the flame hovering inches from my cigar. "Julian Vance died ten years ago in a warehouse fire."
"Yeah," Dominic said quietly. "He did. But rumors were he had a daughter who vanished right after the fire. People said she died in the blaze."
I blew out a thick plume of grey smoke, watching it swirl against the ceiling. "She didn't die in the fire. She’s sleeping in my guest room with a baby in her arms."
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"Boss," Dominic warned, taking a step closer. "If she’s Julian Vance’s daughter, and she’s been hiding under our roof disguised as a maid for the last two months, somebody put her here. Or somebody followed her here. If Julian’s old enemies find out she’s inside this estate, this house is going to become a warzone."
"Good," I said, my voice dripping with lethal anticipation. "I’ve been looking for a reason to burn this city down for three years. Tell the boys to arm the heavy weapons. If anyone comes looking for Adeline Vance, they're going to find out why people call me the Butcher of the Waterfront."
