Chapter 4 - THE MIDNIGHT LEDGERMidnight in Chicago smelled of wet asphalt, cheap gasoline, and ozone.
Deep beneath the South Side mansion, inside the concrete vault that once served as a bootlegger's storage bunker during Prohibition, Grant Holloway was tied securely to a heavy metal chair. His designer suit was wrinkled, a thin line of dried blood trickled from his lip, and his eyes were bloodshot.
Nathan rolled his chair into the harsh glare of the overhead incandescent bulb.
"The federal package won't save you, Grant," Nathan said, tossing a heavy, encrypted flash drive onto the steel table in front of him. "I had my tech team intercept your backup server at your downtown loft thirty minutes ago. The encrypted drop was wiped before it ever hit the cloud."
Grant’s eyes flared with sudden panic. "You bluffing bastard..."
"I don't bluff," Nathan replied coldly. "You taught me that. Now, we're going to talk about the Outfit’s leadership council. The men who funded the ambush. The men who promised you the throne."
Grant stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. Then, slowly, a twisted, bloody grin spread across his face.
"You think I’m the biggest fish in this tank, Nathan? You think the Outfit gave me the green light just because I wanted power?" Grant laughed, a wet, rattling sound. "They backed me because they knew you were vulnerable. But more than that... they backed me because of her."
Nathan’s expression darkened instantly. "Who?"
"Claire," Grant spat out. "Did you really think a down-on-her-luck maid with a dead husband just happened to apply for a job at your secluded mansion right after the hit? Did you think she wandered into your fortress by pure coincidence?"
Nathan’s heart skipped a beat. The room seemed to tilt.
"What are you talking about?" Nathan demanded, his voice cracking with a sudden, dangerous edge.
"Claire isn't a maid, Nathan," Grant whispered triumphantly, savoring every syllable. "She’s the niece of Frank 'The Razor' Marcone—the head of the North Side syndicate. She was planted inside your house six months ago to map your security grid, track your medication schedule, and find out if you were mentally fit to retaliate. The little girl? A prop. A psychological wedge to crack your cold heart open."
Nathan stared at him, the world freezing around him. Every memory of Lily’s innocent smile, her crayon drawings, her climbing into his lap—flashed through his mind like a twisted, cruel joke.
"You're lying," Nathan breathed, though deep down, a cold dread began to consume him.
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"Check her staff locker again," Grant sneered. "Not for the money I planted. Check the false bottom under the wooden shelf. You’ll find a satellite burner phone and a ledger with your exact daily medical dosage—the kind of poison that makes a paralyzed man look like he died of natural heart failure."
Nathan didn’t wait another second. He spun his wheelchair around, slamming his hands against the motorized wheels, and rocketed out of the bunker toward the private elevator.
