Chapter 3 - The Ledger in the Cellar
The air in the bedroom turned freezing cold despite the warmth of the roaring hearth.
Desmond did not hesitate; he pulled the silk quilt off his waist and thrust his arm toward the wheelchair parked beside the mattress.
“Help me into the chair,” he ordered, his voice losing every trace of the exhausted man from moments ago.
“Desmond, you just took twenty milligrams of baclofen and your nervous system is completely fatigued,” I protested, blocking his reach.
“You are not going into a damp cellar in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
He grabbed my arm with enough controlled force to make me listen.
“Nora, if I do not look that man in the eyes within the next ten minutes, my lieutenants will decide I am no longer fit to hold Chicago.”
“Frankie, bring the harness.”
I realized then that arguing with him was pointless; his kingdom was built on absolute intimidation, and pride was his only survival mechanism.
“If you go down there, I am coming with you,” I insisted, checking his pulse with my free hand.
“You go into sudden neurogenic shock, and I am the only one who knows how to administer your atropine.”
Desmond held my gaze for a tense five seconds before nodding once to Frankie.
Ten minutes later, the freight elevator groaned as it descended beneath the foundation of the estate into the fortified sub-basement.
Water dripped from exposed concrete pipes overhead, pattering onto the cold stone floor.
Tied to a rusted iron chair under a single hanging bulb was a man beaten beyond recognition, coughing up dark red fluid.
Beside him stood Julian Vance, Desmond’s first cousin and the operational director of the family’s downtown transport routes.
Julian was immaculate in a charcoal three-piece suit, flicking a silver lighter open and closed with rhythmic precision.
“Desmond,” Julian said smoothly, stepping back from the captive.
“I thought you were asleep, cousin.”
“You should not have strained yourself coming down those stairs.”
“I don’t need functioning legs to look at garbage, Julian,” Desmond answered, steering his wheelchair directly into the light.
The prisoner raised his swollen head, squinting through blood-crusted eyelids.
“Gallagher...” the man croaked, spitting blood onto the concrete.
“You should be buried in Mount Carmel next to your father.”
Desmond’s face remained completely expressionless, the calm of an apex predator masking any inner turmoil.
“You were paid two hundred thousand dollars to install a military-grade pressure plate beneath the transmission of my Mercedes,” Desmond said evenly.
“The wire work was done with surgical care.”
“Only two people in Illinois have the clearance to purchase that trigger mechanism.”
“Tell me who handed you the detonator casing, and I will let Frankie give you a quick bullet instead of an agonizing week.”
The prisoner let out a ragged, mocking cough that rattled his bruised ribs.
“I don’t know his face, Gallagher.”
“The package came through a dead drop on Archer Avenue.”
“A kid delivered the schematics in an unmarked courier pouch.”
The captive’s eyes suddenly darted past Desmond’s shoulder and locked onto me standing in the shadows behind the chair.
His swollen lips pulled back into a crooked, bloody grin.
“A kid driving a beat-up blue Honda Civic with a cracked taillight.”
“Had a clover tattoo on his right knuckle.”
A cold spike of pure ice drove straight through my stomach, freezing the blood in my veins.
My breath caught in my throat, my vision narrowing down to a sharp, sickening pinpoint.
A blue Honda Civic with a cracked taillight was the exact car I had driven until three hours ago when it died at the front gates.
And the clover tattoo on the right knuckle belonged to only one person in the entire world.
Leo.
My twenty-two-year-old younger brother, who had sworn he had cleared his debts with the street loan sharks two months ago.
Julian noticed my sharp intake of breath and turned his sharp eyes toward me, a predator noticing a sudden limp in the herd.
“Is our nurse feeling lightheaded from the smell of blood?” Julian asked, his voice dripping with false concern.
Desmond did not turn his head, but his peripheral gaze locked onto my trembling hands.
“Nora,” Desmond said, his tone carrying an edge that could sever steel.
“Take my blood pressure.”
I forced my legs forward, walking toward his chair on limbs that felt made of lead.
I wrapped the velcro cuff around Desmond’s upper arm, my fingers shaking violently against his skin.
His heart rate was remarkably slow, but when my knuckles brushed against his bicep, he felt the tremor in my grip.
Desmond looked up into my face, his icy blue eyes analyzing the sheer horror written across my features.
He recognized the guilt in my silence before I even had the chance to hide it.
“Julian,” Desmond said without breaking eye contact with me.
“Take the prisoner to the cold storage room and keep him breathing until sunrise.”
May you like
“Frankie, take Nora back upstairs to my study.”
“Lock the doors from the outside.”
