Chapter 1 - The Sound of Breaking GlassThe neon sign of the Evanston pediatric care center flickered against the heavy January snowfall, casting a pale, bleeding red across the linoleum floor. Claire sat frozen across from Mason, her fingers still resting on his hospital collar.
"Is it your boss?" Mason asked again, his large, perceptive eyes narrowing with a maturity no twelve-year-old should possess.
Before Claire could form a lie that wouldn't insult his intelligence, the heavy double doors at the end of the ward banged open.
Three men in identical charcoal wool coats strode down the corridor, their boots clicking sharply against the floor. They weren't doctors. They didn't have the hurried, frantic energy of nurses. They moved with the cold, absolute authority of predators who owned the streetlights, the police blotters, and the very ground beneath the hospital.
At the center of them walked Adrian Moretti.
He had changed out of his wet coat. He wore a crisp, tailored black suit, his dark hair combed back neatly, every trace of the weeping, rain-soaked wreck from two nights ago entirely erased. Except for his eyes. Those eyes scanned the room with a razor-sharp focus that immediately locked onto Claire.
Mason turned his head, following her line of sight. "Is that him?"
"Mason, stay here," Claire whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Mr. Moretti doesn't make house calls," Mason muttered, tracking the men as they approached. "Or hospital calls, I'd wager."
Adrian stopped two paces from their table. The two bodyguards flanked him, remaining silent, their hands resting loosely near their waistbands. The clinical sterility of the children's ward suddenly felt suffocatingly small, dominated entirely by Adrian’s heavy, imposing presence.
He didn't look at Mason at first. He looked down at Claire, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that carried easily over the hum of the medical monitors.
"You left the coffee on the table, Claire," Adrian said, his tone dangerously flat. "And you left a note."
Claire stood up slowly, putting herself between Adrian and her brother. "I was off duty, Mr. Moretti. Sunday is my designated day."
"Sunday," Adrian repeated, tasting the word as if it were foreign to him. He finally shifted his gaze to the chessboard, studying the piece placement. "Queen's gambit declined. White moved too early."
Mason looked up at the towering, impeccably dressed stranger without a shred of fear. "She always brings her queen out too soon. It’s a terrible habit."
A flicker of something resembling amusement—or perhaps human curiosity—touched the corners of Adrian's mouth, though his eyes remained frozen.
"It is," Adrian agreed softly. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulling out a crisp, folded piece of hotel stationery. It was the note she had left him: No one knows you came downstairs. If you want me to leave, please give me two weeks. — C.
Adrian unfolded it deliberately, letting them all see it. Then, he looked back at Claire.
"You asked for two weeks," Adrian said, stepping closer, closing the distance until the scent of expensive cedarwood and winter rain surrounded her. "I’m giving you a lifetime. Pack your brother's things. He's moving to the private wing on the fourteenth floor of Chicago General. Paid in full, in perpetuity."
May you like
Claire’s breath caught. "I didn't ask for this."
"No," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a harsh, resonant whisper that only she could hear. "You didn't. But one hundred seven nights ago, someone else didn't ask to be buried in the basement of this city either. And you're going to help me find out who put them there."
