Chapter 3 - Entering the Lion’s DenMidnight in Chicago was a cruel, biting thing, but inside the black armored SUV, the temperature felt absolute zero.
I sat in the back seat with little Leo cradled securely against my chest inside a specialized wrap Daniel had provided. The baby was sleeping softly, lulled by the rhythmic thrum of my heartbeat and the hum of the vehicle’s engine. Across from me sat Daniel Russo, staring down at a heavy obsidian tablet, his face illuminated by the cold blue light.
We weren't going to a hospital. We were heading north, deeper into the heavily guarded territory of the Gold Coast, toward an estate that looked less like a home and more like a modern medieval fortress. Iron gates, security cameras at every conceivable angle, and high stone walls shrouded in shivering ivy.
My entire life had upended in less than two hours. My apartment, my job, my routine—gone. Replaced by a cage made of gold, armed guards, and a debt I had no guarantee I could pay off.
"He's waking up," I whispered softly, feeling a slight shift in Leo’s breathing.
Without looking up from his tablet, Daniel snapped his fingers. Marco, who was driving, immediately adjusted the climate control in the back. "Too cold?" Daniel asked, his eyes finally flickering up to meet mine.
"He likes it slightly warmer when he transitions between sleep cycles," I murmured, adjusting the blanket over Leo's shoulder. "And the blue light from your tablet is too sharp. It strains his ocular nerves."
Daniel stared at me for a beat, then pressed a button on the side of the screen, instantly plunging the device into a dim, warm amber glow. I blinked in surprise. The most feared man in the Midwest—a man who had likely ordered dozens of executions before breakfast—had just adjusted his screen because a captive nurse told him to.
"You're very bold for someone whose life hangs by a thread," Daniel observed, his voice completely devoid of mockery. It sounded like an objective observation of fact.
"I don't have time to be scared," I answered honestly, rocking gently as the SUV rolled through the massive iron gates of the estate. "Fear makes my heart race. My heart racing makes Leo's heart race. If Leo's heart races, he screams. And if he screams, my brother dies. It’s a very simple chain reaction, Mr. Russo."
Daniel let out a low, dark sound that might have been a chuckle if it weren't so chilling. "Logical. I appreciate logic. Illogical people make mistakes, and mistakes in my world are fatal."
The SUV came to a smooth halt in front of a sprawling, grand limestone mansion. The front doors opened instantly, and a woman in a sharp, conservative gray dress stepped out into the cold night air, flanked by two more guards.
This was Mrs. Vance, the head housekeeper, whose face looked like it had been carved out of granite and never once touched by joy. As the door opened, her eyes locked onto me, then instantly dropped to the baby against my chest.
"Is he breathing?" she demanded, her voice sharp as glass.
"He's sleeping," I replied firmly, stepping out of the vehicle and shielding Leo from the biting wind with my coat. "And he will stay that way if nobody drops anything, yells, or shines bright lights in his face."
Mrs. Vance stiffened, her eyes flashing with indignation at being spoken to that way in her own domain. She looked up at Daniel, expecting him to put the insolent nurse in her place.
Instead, Daniel stepped out of the SUV, adjusted his cuffs, and looked at his head housekeeper with deadpan authority. "Do whatever she says, Mrs. Vance. Every single demand. If she asks for Egyptian cotton soaked in chamomile tea, you get it. If she asks for absolute silence in the west wing, you make sure the staff communicates in sign language. Is that clear?"
Mrs. Vance blinked, shock rippling across her rigid features. "Yes, Mr. Russo."
"Good." Daniel turned his cold gaze back to me. "Your quarters have been prepared down the hall from the nursery. Marco will escort you. Rest while you can, Miss Jenkins. Tomorrow, the real work begins."
May you like
As Daniel strode past us toward the massive double doors, disappearing into the warm, dimly lit foyer, Mrs. Vance turned to me with a look of pure, unadulterated warning.
"You may have fooled the boss into thinking you're some kind of miracle worker," she hissed quietly as she led me inside, "but make no mistake. One wrong move, one tiny sound that wakes that baby up... and you'll find out just how permanent a mafia boss's hospitality really is."
