Chapter 2 - THE DEATH OF DON DECLANBy sunrise, the city of Chicago belonged to a ghost.
Inside Abby’s cramped basement apartment, the air smelled of iodine, copper blood, and stale black coffee.
Declan lay across her small mattress, his massive frame taking up almost the entire bed. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep and ragged as the high-grade antibiotics Abby had stolen from the estate’s private medical vault took effect.
Abby sat on a wooden chair beside him, her hair pulled into a tight braid, watching the small six-inch television she kept on her kitchen counter.
The breaking news banner across the screen was bright red:
CHICAGO MAFIA KINGPIN DECLAN GALLAGHER FOUND DEAD AFTER RIVERFRONT SHOOTOUT.
Abby’s hands froze around her mug.
On screen, a slick news anchor stood before the foggy banks of the Chicago River near the Navy Pier.
"Sources within the Chicago Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation have confirmed that thirty-eight-year-old billionaire executive and alleged syndicate leader Declan Gallagher was killed late last night," the reporter announced. "A burnt-out luxury SUV containing human remains and Don Gallagher’s personal signet ring was pulled from the river early this morning. His younger brother, Thomas Gallagher, has released a statement expressing deep grief and announcing his immediate assumption of the family's corporate and private assets..."
Abby turned to look at the bed.
Declan was wide awake. His hazel eyes were fixed on the television screen, cold and unblinking.
"He bought the police commissioner," Declan said softly, his voice devoid of all anger, replaced by a hollow, terrifying clarity. "Tommy burned a body, threw my ring on it, and paid the coroner to sign the death certificate. By noon today, every captain in the Five Families will swear allegiance to him."
"They think you're dead," Abby whispered, stepping closer to the bed. "Declan... you can't fight them like this. You can't even stand up without tearing your stitches."
Declan swung his legs over the side of the mattress. Pain flared across his face, turning his jaw tight, but he didn't make a sound. He stood up, his towering, six-foot-three frame filling the small bedroom. He was wearing an old grey tracksuit belonging to Abby’s late father—the pants ending three inches above his ankles, the sweatshirt stretched tight over his broad shoulders.
He walked over to Abby, stopping inches from her soft, full body.
"I don't need to fight them today, Abby," Declan said, reaching out to cup her cheek with his warm, calloused palm. "I need them to believe I’m in the ground. I need Tommy to feel safe. I need him to open his books, call his backers, and step into the light."
Abby leaned into his touch for a fraction of a second before catching herself. "And what about you? Where are you going to go?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Declan murmured, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her pulse spike. "I'm staying right here. With you."
"Here?!" Abby gasped, gesturing wildly around her tiny, fifty-square-foot apartment. "Declan, Tommy’s men are patrolling the estate grounds! The housekeepers clean this hallway every day! If anyone catches a glimpse of you—"
"No one looks at the basement, Abby," Declan interrupted quietly. "For seven years, I watched how the elite of this city treated you. They walk past you like you're made of glass. They discuss money laundering, assassinations, and political bribes right in front of you while you're changing their linen, because to them, a working-class woman doesn't exist."
He stepped closer, his heavy hands coming to rest on her plush, rounded hips, pulling her body against his chest.
"You are my invisible fortress, Abby," he whispered into her hair. "They will spend millions looking for my ghost in Europe, in South America, in the Bahamas. They will never look inside the maid's room."
Abby’s breath hitched in her throat. The heat of his body was overwhelming, melting away seven years of professional distance in a single second. She raised her hands, resting her palms against his broad chest, feeling the steady, powerful thumping of his heart beneath her fingers.
"If they find out I'm hiding you..." she whispered, looking up into his dark, deadly eyes. "...they will kill me, Declan."
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Declan leaned down until his lips were brushing against hers—a light, electric taste of promise that sent a shiver straight down her spine.
"If anyone tries to hurt you, sweet girl," Declan growled softly, "I will burn this city to the ground before I let them lay a finger on you."
