Chapter 8 - The Price of SurvivalThree days later, the private jet lifted off from Chicago Midway Airport under a blanket of heavy rain, bound directly for Zurich, Switzerland.
The transition felt surreal. The Cicero diner, the freezing night shifts cleaning corporate offices, the crushing weight of the hospital bills piling up on my mother’s kitchen table—it all felt like a lifetime ago.
Sitting across from me in the plush leather cabin of Dominic’s private aircraft was Tyler.
My brother looked remarkably healthy for someone scheduled for open-heart surgery in less than a week. The private medical team accompanying us had transferred his entire file to Zurich’s premier cardiovascular institute, all expenses covered by an anonymous philanthropic trust that bore a suspiciously close resemblance to the Vale Corporation’s charitable wing.
Noah sat beside me, staring out the oval window as the twinkling lights of Chicago faded into the stormy night sky below. He held a small, brand-new sketch pad in his lap, filling the pages not with jagged, terrifying symbols, but with simple, quiet drawings of horses, trees, and a tall man with broad shoulders standing beside a white stone mansion.
My phone buzzed against the leather seat.
It was a text from an unknown, encrypted number.
The warehouse in the north wing is cleared. Apex is finished. Take care of my boy, Clara. I’ll see you both when the snow melts.
May you like
I stared at the screen for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the reply button. I didn't type anything back. I simply locked the phone, slid it into my pocket, and turned toward Noah, who had finally closed his eyes and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep for the first time in two years.
The blood had washed off the marble floors of the Lake Forest mansion, but the war we had survived would stay with us forever.
