Chapter 2 - The Fourteenth Floor and the Ghost of Room 404The private wing of Chicago General Hospital smelled of bleach and expensive flowers, a stark contrast to the antiseptic panic of the Evanston ward. Mason sat propped up on motorized pillows, staring in awe at the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a snow-dusted Lake Michigan.
"This isn't a room," Mason whispered, running his hands over the remote-controlled leather mattress. "This is a luxury suite."
"It's temporary," Claire said, though she knew lying to her brother was useless. Nothing about Adrian Moretti was temporary.
Two armed guards stood outside the suite’s double oak doors, courtesy of Moretti’s personal security detail. When Claire had tried to protest the heavy-handed surveillance, Adrian had simply looked at her and said, "If they aren't guarding him, someone else will be watching you."
She paced the length of the suite, her mind racing back to the phrase that had upended her entire life: One hundred seven nights.
What happened one hundred and seven nights ago?
She mentally counted back through the calendar. October. Late October. The night of the citywide dockworkers' strike. The night the historic West Side shipping warehouse belonging to the Moretti syndicate had burned to the ground, taking three watchmen with it. The official police report called it an electrical fire.
The door opened without a knock.
Adrian walked in, unaccompanied for once. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing lean, corded muscle and a jagged, fading scar across his left wrist.
"Your brother likes the view," Adrian noted, glancing briefly at Mason, who was busy testing the electronic adjustments on his bed.
"He likes breathing clean air without an oxygen tank whining in the corner," Claire snapped, her voice sharp with suppressed rage. She walked over to Adrian, backing him up against the heavy oak door until it clicked shut. "What kind of game are you playing? You can't just buy my brother's life and expect me to fall in line like one of your lieutenants."
Adrian didn't flinch. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked down at her with those dark, bottomless eyes.
"It's not a game, Claire. It’s an insurance policy. For both of us."
"Insurance against what?"
"Against the men who think I’m losing my grip," Adrian said, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his large hand gripping the door frame right beside her head, trapping her in a space of her own making. "The syndicate isn't a family business, Claire. It’s a corporate shark tank. When the boss shows weakness—when he starts drinking alone in a dark kitchen and talking to his maid about the weight of his crown—the sharks smell blood."
"Then fix it yourself. You built the empire."
"And it's about to devour me from the inside," Adrian countered fiercely. "One hundred and seven nights ago, my chief financial officer, Victor Vance, embezzled forty million dollars and tried to frame me for the warehouse murders. I found out. I dealt with it. Or so I thought."
Claire’s breath hitched. "Vance vanished. The papers said he fled to South America."
"The papers print what my publicists tell them to print," Adrian whispered. "Vance didn't flee. He went into deep hiding, taking the ledger with him—the ledger that lists every politician, judge, and cop on the Moretti payroll. If that ledger goes public, half the city burns. And the men who want my seat arranged the fire."
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"And what does that have to do with me?" Claire demanded.
Adrian’s gaze softened infinitesimally, a dangerous crack in his iron facade. "Because Victor Vance’s private secretary, the only person who knew where the physical ledger was hidden, walked out of this exact hospital six months ago... and her name was Elena Bennett. Your mother."
