Chapter 4 - BLOOD ON THE MATTRESSThe rain had turned into a torrential downpour by the time Declan’s matte-black armored Mercedes-Maybach pulled up outside the dilapidated brick tenement on 32nd Street. The neighborhood was a forgotten corner of Chicago—gray, crumbling, and choked with graffiti and flickering neon signs that buzzed like dying insects.
Sophia sat in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle. "My apartment is on the fourth floor. No elevator. The stairs are rotten."
"Stay behind me," Declan ordered, cutting the engine. He didn't wait for her; he pushed his door open into the driving rain, pulling the collar of his black wool coat high around his neck.
They entered through the heavy steel front door of the building, which had been kicked off its latch months ago. The stairwell smelled of damp concrete, cheap cooking oil, and old copper. Every step they took groaned under Declan’s heavy boots.
When they reached the fourth floor, Apartment 4B’s door was already wide open.
Splintered wood lay across the linoleum hallway. Inside, the small, one-room apartment had been completely dismantled. Mattress slashed, drawers emptied onto the floor, clothes ripped, and books scattered like dead leaves.
Sophia gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "My god..."
Declan raised his hand, signaling her to stop. He moved forward with terrifying, feline grace, his pistol drawn and held close to his chest. He cleared the tiny kitchen, checked the bathroom, and then stepped into the ruined bedroom area.
Two men were kneeling by the overturned dresser. One was holding a thick manila folder stamped with the Walsh Logistics logo—Hannah’s audit files.
"Hey, boss, look what we—" the first man started, turning around, assuming it was one of Sullivan’s other crew members.
The words died in his throat.
Declan didn't hesitate. With brutal, calculated speed, he closed the distance, slamming the butt of his pistol into the man’s temple. The thug dropped like a felled tree, hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud.
The second man scrambled for a switchblade tucked into his belt, but before he could draw it, Declan’s boot caught him squarely in the chest, sending him flying backward through a cheap plywood bookcase.
The man groaned, blood spilling from his nose, staring up into the cold, dead-eyed gaze of Declan Walsh.
"D-Declan..." the thug choked out, trembling so violently his teeth clicked together. "We... we didn't know you were backing her..."
Declan crouched down until his face was inches from the terrified man's eyes. The mafia boss didn't raise his voice; he spoke with the quiet, terrifying calm of an executioner pronouncing a sentence.
"Who sent you?"
"V-Vance!" the thug gasped, clutching his bruised ribs. "It was Vance! He said the girl had the digital ledger! He told us to trash the place, grab the files, and make sure she never came back to the estate!"
Sophia stepped into the room, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the manila folder clutched in the unconscious thug’s hand. She reached down, pulled it free, and opened it.
Inside weren't just Hannah’s financial notes. There were photographs.
Photographs of Sophia walking into the estate. Photographs of her sleeping in the guest bed. Photographs of Declan sitting beside her chair in the dark, holding her hand.
Sophia’s breath caught in her throat.
Vance wasn't just stealing money. He was building a case against Declan—a case to prove to the Chicago Commission that the ruthless, untouchable mafia boss was losing his grip, distracted by a twenty-four-year-old maid.
"He’s playing both sides," Sophia whispered, looking up at Declan. "He’s setting you up to look weak, Declan. In the syndicate, weakness is a death sentence."
Declan stood up slowly. He looked down at the thugs, then over at Sophia holding the photographs. The expression on his face wasn't anger anymore; it was something far colder, far more dangerous. It was the face of a man who realized his entire kingdom was built on sand.
"Get the files," Declan said, his voice like grinding ice. "We’re going back to the estate."
"And them?" Sophia asked, gesturing to the two men on the floor.
May you like
Declan didn't even look back as he walked toward the shattered doorway.
"Tell Tommy Sullivan his debt is canceled," Declan said coldly. "Permanently."
