Chapter 7 - THE RANSOM OF THE GOLD COASTThree days later, the Walsh estate was quiet—too quiet. The storm had passed, leaving behind clear autumn skies and crisp Chicago air that smelled of fallen leaves and distant lake water.
Sophia sat in her small, spotless apartment on 32nd Street. The landlord had mysteriously vanished, replaced by a property management company that dropped off a receipt marked PAID IN FULL - TEN YEARS ADVANCE. The electric company had removed the final notice from her door, replacing it with an apology letter and a credit balance.
She had her life back. She had her safety back.
So why couldn't she stop staring at her phone?
She had expected a call from Declan’s accountants, or a polite severance check from Mrs. Gable, or even a summons back to the estate to scrub more floors. But nothing came. The digital world of the Walsh syndicate had swallowed her whole and spat her back out into anonymity.
Until a black Town Car pulled up outside her building at midnight.
Sophia didn't wait for a knock. She grabbed her heavy wool coat, pulled it over her shoulders, and walked down the creaking wooden stairs into the cool night air.
The rear door of the Town Car opened silently.
Declan Walsh sat inside, dressed in a charcoal overcoat, his dark hair falling across his forehead, looking tired, dangerous, and impossibly alive. He wasn't holding a weapon. He was holding a small, silver-bound ledger.
"Get in, Sophia," he said.
She hesitated for a second, then slid across the leather seat, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The car pulled away from the curb, gliding smoothly into the traffic of downtown Chicago.
"I thought I was fired," Sophia said, keeping her hands folded tightly in her lap.
"You were never an employee," Declan replied, staring straight ahead out the tinted window. "You were an auditor who refused to stay in her lane."
"And now?"
Declan turned his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers in the dim interior light of the car. "Now, the Chicago Commission is fractured. Vance’s assets have been seized. And my logistics division is missing someone who knows how to spot a lie in a column of numbers."
Sophia stared at him, her breath hitching. "Are you offering me a job?"
"I’m offering you a partnership," Declan corrected softly. "An executive position managing Walsh Logistics. Fifty grand a month, full security detail, and a desk on the top floor of the Walsh Tower."
Sophia let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "You want a twenty-four-year-old maid to run your international shipping division?"
"You found the leak that three dead accountants missed," Declan said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that sent shivers down her spine. "And you didn't run to the cops, and you didn't sell out to New York. You held your ground against a room full of killers." He paused, reaching out to place his hand—the exact same hand she had held in her sleep three nights ago—on the console between them. "Besides... you already know how to handle me when I'm sleeping."
Heat rushed to Sophia’s face. She looked down at his scarred hand, then back up into his intense, unblinking gaze.
"There's one condition," Sophia said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, confident purr of her own.
Declan raised an eyebrow. "Name it."
"You carry your own bags upstairs from now on."
May you like
Declan let out a low, genuine laugh—a sound that shook the very foundation of his ruthless reputation—and closed his hand over hers.
"Deal."
