Chapter 2 - shadows in the sanctuary
The silence in the hallway was suffocating. Outside, the distant rumble of the elevated train vibrated through the foundation, but neither man moved. Beatrice backed slowly against the wall, her hands pressed flat against the rough plaster, her breathing shallow and ragged.
"Julian," Damian whispered, the name tearing from his throat like broken glass.
Twelve years ago, Damian had stood in the pouring rain at Saint Michael’s Cemetery, watching four tons of earth bury the casket of Julian Moretti. Julian had been the crowned prince of the family, the visionary who was supposed to take their legitimate businesses into the light while Damian controlled the streets. Then came the explosion at the Chicago riverfront warehouse. The body had been burned beyond recognition, identified only by dental records supplied by the family physician and the presence of Julian's personal effects.
Damian had spent twelve years carrying the guilt of that night. He had hunted down the rival syndicates he believed were responsible, painting the Midwest in quiet retribution, only to find himself staring at a ghost.
"Put your hands where I can see them," Damian said, his voice dropping into the icy, conditioned cadence of a commander, even as his chest heaved.
Julian let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He raised his hands slowly, holding the warm plate of mansion leftovers in one palm. "Still giving orders, little brother. I see you haven't lost your touch. Or your tailor."
"How are you breathing?" Damian stepped forward, closing the distance until barely two feet separated them. Up close, Julian looked older, his fair skin marked by a faint, silver scar running from his temple down behind his ear. "Whose bones did I put in the ground, Julian?"
"A courier who had the misfortune of wearing my coat when the trap was sprung," Julian said, his eyes darkening. "And before you ask, no, I didn't run away. I was hunted."
"By who?" Damian demanded. "The Petrov family? The council?"
"By someone sleeping under your roof," Julian replied.
The words hung in the frigid air like poison. Beatrice let out a small, terrified gasp. Damian snapped his eyes toward her, his gaze intense.
"You," Damian said, stepping toward her. Beatrice shrank back, but Damian did not raise a hand; he merely pinned her with his piercing look. "You've worked in my home for eight months. You brought him food. You knew he was alive while you dusted the portraits of him in my gallery."
"She didn't know who I was until three weeks ago, Damian," Julian interrupted, stepping between them. "Leave her out of this. She found me freezing to death behind this kitchen in November. She saw a starving man and brought him bread. When she saw the ring, she asked questions. She’s innocent."
"Nobody who enters my orbit is innocent," Damian said coldly.
"Mr. Moretti," Beatrice said, her voice shaking but her chin lifting with sudden, unexpected courage. "If you're going to hurt someone, hurt me. He can barely walk some days. The dampness in this cellar is ruining his lungs. The children... they don't know anything. Please don't take the food away from them."
Damian looked at her, truly looked at her. Her large, hazel eyes were wet with tears, but behind the fear was an iron will. She had willingly placed herself in the crosshairs of Chicago’s most lethal crime syndicate just to make sure a shattered man and half a dozen homeless orphans had dinner.
A faint buzz vibrated in Damian’s overcoat pocket. He reached in and pulled out his secure phone. The screen flashed with Lorenzo’s name.
Damian glanced at Julian, then at Beatrice. "Quiet. Both of you."
He answered the call, bringing the phone to his ear. "What is it, Lorenzo?"
"Boss," Lorenzo’s harsh voice came through clearly. "One of our perimeter scouts says they spotted your car parked four blocks from the river near an abandoned shelter. You out there alone? You want me to bring a crew down to sweep the block?"
Damian felt the hair on his arms rise. How did Lorenzo track his vehicle so quickly? Damian had taken an unmarked sedan from the private garage, a vehicle known only to the inner circle.
"No," Damian said smoothly, keeping his voice entirely steady. "I'm checking a property lead for the real estate trust. Head back to the estate. We'll discuss the kitchen inventory in the morning."
A beat of hesitation lingered on the other end of the line. "Understood, boss. Be careful. Streets are slick tonight."
Damian ended the call, his thumb hovering over the screen. He looked up at Julian. "He knew where my car was."
Julian’s expression turned grim. "He always knows. Who do you think locked the fire escapes at the warehouse twelve years ago, Damian?"
The corridor seemed to plunge into absolute zero. Lorenzo Vale was Damian’s right hand, the man who had stood beside him at Julian’s funeral, shedding tears into the open grave.
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"Proof," Damian said, his voice a low growl. "I don't execute my oldest friend on the word of a ghost."
"Then let me show you," Julian said. "Pack the children. If Lorenzo knows you're in this sector, he’ll have his clean-up crew here before dawn. He leaves no loose threads."
