Chapter 2 - Shadows Across Western Avenue
The rain had begun to fall over Chicago by the time Hannah left the café.
She had refused my offer of a private car,
adamantly marching toward the bus stop with her canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.
I stood by the tinted glass window of the café,
watching her faded sneakers step into puddles of city grime.
Marco stood three paces behind me,
holding a secure satellite tablet.
"We tracked the Moretti trucks,
boss,"
Marco reported,
his voice low and monotonous.
"They withdrew as soon as Victor showed up with the heavy team.
They were testing us."
"Dante is getting bold,"
I murmured,
my eyes still tracking Hannah’s retreating figure across the street.
"He thinks because I spent the last six months quiet,
I’ve grown soft."
"Should I take care of Dante?"
Marco asked plainly,
as if asking whether he should order dinner.
"Not yet,"
I replied.
"Send two unbadged vehicles to follow Hannah Cole.
I want six men on her at all times.
If a single blade of grass falls near her feet without her permission,
I want the person responsible brought to my basement."
Marco paused,
his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
"The woman from the shelter?"
he asked.
"She’s a civilian,
Boss.
If Moretti realizes you’re looking at her,
she becomes a target."
"She is already a target the moment she sat at my table,"
I said harshly,
turning around to face him.
"Make sure she never knows they are there.
If she catches your men tailing her,
I will hold you personally accountable."
"Understood,"
Marco bowed his head quickly,
stepping away to make the call.
Two hours later,
I was sitting in my top-floor penthouse office in River North.
The room was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass,
offering a panoramic view of the rainy Chicago skyline.
On my mahogany desk lay a thick,
manila folder labeled with Hannah Cole's name.
I opened it slowly.
Her life was laid out in dry,
official documents.
Born in South Ohio,
father worked in a steel mill until the plant closed,
mother was a school librarian who died of cancer when Hannah was nineteen.
Hannah moved to Chicago ten years ago on an academic scholarship.
She lived in a small,
third-floor apartment on Western Avenue with no air conditioning and a radiator that rattled incessantly in winter.
Her salary at Bridge House was barely thirty-four thousand dollars a year.
She spent nearly four thousand of her own money every year buying school supplies,
winter coats,
and bus passes for the children who frequented the shelter.
There was no record of luxury,
no history of expensive trips,
no rich ex-boyfriends.
She was entirely,
infuriatingly clean.
Then my eyes landed on a police report stapled to the back of the file.
Eight years ago.
A brother.
Liam Cole.
Age twenty-one.
Shot and killed in a gang crossfire outside a convenience store on the West Side.
The case was marked cold.
No arrests were ever made.
The neighborhood where Liam died was controlled by Dante Moretti’s predecessor.
I closed the folder,
the rough paper dragging against my leather-bound blotter.
Everything made sense now.
Her hatred of my world,
her disgust for my wealth,
her refusal to look at my security team with anything other than cold recognition.
She didn't just see a mafia boss when she looked at me;
she saw the very ecosystem that had taken her brother's life.
I reached for my glass of scotch,
taking a slow sip as the ice clinked against the crystal.
"You think you can stay clean,
Hannah,"
I whispered into the empty room.
"But the mud in this city reaches everywhere."
My phone buzzed on the desk.
It was an encrypted message from Rachel.
Did you ruin her life yet,
or did you actually act like a human being for once?
I stared at the text,
my thumb hovering over the screen.
She knew about the foundation,
I typed back.
A few seconds later,
Rachel’s reply flashed on the screen:
She’s smart,
Nathan.
She doesn't want your dark empire.
She just wanted to see if the man behind the crown had a soul left.
Don't break her.
I shoved the phone into my pocket,
stood up,
and grabbed my long charcoal coat.
"Marco,"
I called out as I stepped into the private elevator hallway.
"Get the car ready."
"Where are we going,
boss?"
"Western Avenue,"
I said,
May you like
fastening the silver buttons of my coat.
"I want to see what thirty-four thousand dollars a year looks like."
