Chapter 3 - THE LADY IN THE WHEELCHAIR
The flat, mechanical shriek of the hospital monitor filled the room, vibrating against my eardrums. Vincent’s hand slipped off the edge of the mattress, the silver bottle clattering against the linoleum floor.
He was gone. The undisputed king of the Chicago underworld, a man who had survived turf wars, federal indictments, and assassination attempts, had died quietly in a clinic bed—not from an act of God, but from drops administered by his own flesh and blood.
I didn't look at Grant. I spun around, sprinting out of the doorway and dropping to my knees in front of my son. I scooped Owen up into my arms, burying his face against my shoulder so he couldn't see the monitors flatlining behind us.
"We need to run," I muttered, my voice trembling as I backed away.
"Ah, ah, ah," a soft, musical voice chimed from the end of the corridor.
I froze.
The soft hum of electronic wheels rolled smoothly over the polished marble floor. Out of the shadows of the east wing corridor rolled Eleanor Hale.
She wore a pristine cream-colored cashmere cardigan, her pale hands resting neatly over a wool blanket draped across her lap. Her dark hair was pulled back in an immaculate chignon, and her face—devoid of makeup—was striking, possessing the same sharp, angular cheekbones as her deceased brother.
Except there was no trace of grief in her large, dark eyes. Only an terrifying, clinical serenity.
"You're making a terrible mistake running down these drafty halls, Claire," Eleanor said, her voice carrying a melodic cadence that sent shivers down my spine. "The night air in Chicago is far too harsh for a little boy in pajamas."
Grant stepped out of the room behind me, sliding his hands casually into his pockets. "The perimeter doors are locked, Claire. You're still inside the fortress. And Vincent’s heart failure has officially been logged by Dr. Warren as natural causes."
"You murdered him," I breathed, tightening my grip on Owen.
Eleanor tilted her head, a faint, melancholic smile touching her lips. "My brother built an empire on blood, extortion, and broken bones. I simply retired him a few weeks early. He was getting sentimental. He was talking about turning over a new leaf, donating his fortune to charities, leaving the syndicate behind. Can you imagine? Decades of bloodshed, wiped away by a guilty conscience. I couldn't allow it."
"And you used Grant," I said.
"Grant is a tool," Eleanor replied matter-of-factly, glancing briefly at the lieutenant without an ounce of warmth. "Tools are useful for digging graves or carrying heavy boxes. But the brains of this operation have always belonged to the person sitting in the chair."
She wheeled forward, stopping just two feet away from us. Her eyes shifted from my face down to Owen, who was peeking over my shoulder, completely unfazed by the terrifying aura surrounding the woman.
"Hello, little one," Eleanor whispered softly. "You have very bright eyes. Do you know why your mother is shaking?"
"Because you have cold hands," Owen answered instantly.
Eleanor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second—just a microscopic twitch of her lip—before she recovered her composure. She reached into the deep pocket of her cardigan and pulled out a small, velvet-lined jewelry box.
"Your mother is shaking because she thinks she’s trapped," Eleanor continued, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "But she doesn't have to be. I need a new head of household staff. Someone intelligent, discreet, and medical-minded. Someone who can manage my daily treatments and keep the estate running like clockwork while Grant handles the outer streets."
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She popped the velvet box open. Inside sat a thick, platinum key embedded with heavy diamonds—the master key to the entire estate, including the underground vaults.
"Accept the position, Claire," Eleanor offered, her eyes locking onto mine with hypnotic intensity. "Your debts are paid off tonight. Your son gets a trust fund that will set him up for life. Say yes... or join Vincent in the morgue."
