Chapter 1 - THE FRAGILE BOUNDARY OF THE NIGHT
The air in the room was cold,
colder than the steel of the weapon I held in my hand,
and for a moment,
I felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that usually preceded a kill.
My heart beat with a rhythm of violence,
a rhythm I had perfected over years of ruling the streets of Chicago,
but as I looked down,
the fire in my blood turned to ice.
It wasn't an assassin sent by the rivals I had crushed,
nor was it a ghost from the past coming to claim my soul.
It was Emma,
the girl who scrubbed my floors with chemical-burned hands,
the only person who hadn't looked at me with pity or terror.
She was curled on the very edge of the silk sheets,
her head resting on her thin arm,
still dressed in her gray cleaning uniform.
She looked small,
frail even,
against the backdrop of my massive,
custom-made bed.
Her breathing was shallow and uneven,
and even in sleep,
her brow was furrowed as if she were still fighting a battle I couldn't see.
My hand,
which had been reaching for the 9mm under my pillow,
slowly retracted.
I stared at her,
the paralysis in my legs feeling like a physical weight that pinned me to the spot.
I could have shouted,
I could have shoved her off the bed,
or I could have called Luke to have her thrown out into the rain.
But for the first time in two years,
curiosity outweighed my rage.
How long had she been here,
leaning against the bed before she finally succumbed to the exhaustion that followed her like a shadow?
I looked at the clock on the nightstand;
it was four in the morning.
The storm outside was still raging,
lightning illuminating the room in sharp,
blue flashes that made the scars on my soul feel visible.
She stirred slightly,
a small whimper escaping her lips,
and her hand twitched,
reaching out as if searching for something to hold onto.
I realized then that she hadn't climbed into my bed out of boldness or desire,
she had simply reached the end of her strength.
The nine hours at the diner,
the two buses,
the scrubbing of my fortress;
it had finally broken her.
I sat there in the darkness,
the master of a criminal empire,
watching a girl sleep because she was too tired to stand.
It was a strange,
unsettling kind of power,
knowing I held her life in my hands,
yet feeling like she was the one who was truly free.
She didn't wake up when I moved my chair back,
the motor whirring softly in the silence.
I reached out,
my fingers hovering just inches from her shoulder,
wondering if I should wake her and see the fear finally enter her eyes.
But I didn't.
I let her sleep,
watching the rise and fall of her chest,
May you like
and for a few hours,
the tomb I lived in felt a little less like a grave.
