Chapter 2 - THE GHOSTS OF CHICAGOEthan didn't get back into his Maybach immediately. He told his driver, Marcus, to circle the block while he walked.
The icy wind bit at his face, but he barely felt it. His mind was trapped thirty-five years in the past. He saw a cramped, freezing kitchen in Chicago. He saw his mother, exhausted and crying over an eviction notice, clutching a twenty-dollar bill she had found on the floor of a diner where she worked double shifts. She had tried to find the owner for three days. When she couldn't, she used it to buy him a pair of winter boots—boots that fell apart a month later, leaving his toes numb with frostbite.
“We are poor, Ethan,” his mother had whispered, wrapping his cold feet in a wool blanket. “That is our circumstance. But we are not thieves. A man who steals his dignity for a meal will starve for the rest of his life.”
Ethan had forgotten those words. Or rather, he had chosen to bury them under billions of dollars, luxury penthouses, and a cold, calculated cynicism that convinced him everyone was as corrupt as the ruthless partners who had tried to oust him years ago.
Until tonight. Until Clara Hale.
He pulled out his phone as he stepped into the lobby of his luxury Park Avenue apartment building.
“Marcus,” Ethan said into the receiver, his voice cold and commanding once more. “I want a full, comprehensive background check on a woman named Clara Hale. Current address, employment history, financial status, family. Everything. I want it on my desk by midnight.”
“Sir? On Christmas Eve?” Marcus’s voice sounded hesitant over the Bluetooth link.
“You heard me.”
The call disconnected with a sharp click.
Ethan stepped into his private elevator, ascending silently to the penthouse suite that spanned the entire top floor. The apartment was vast, minimalist, and terrifyingly empty. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering Manhattan skyline, a city of millions where he felt entirely, suffocatingly alone.
He tossed the wallet onto the marble kitchen island. Inside, the five thousand dollars sat untouched.
He poured himself a finger of neat bourbon, swirling the amber liquid against the crystal glass. But as he looked out at the twinkling Christmas trees across the city, he couldn't shake the image of little Lily’s pink, determined face.
“My mommy is not a thief.”
May you like
Ethan slammed the glass down on the counter. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim.
“We’ll see about that,” he muttered to the empty room. “Everyone has a breaking point. Everyone.”
