Chapter 2 - The House on Oak StreetForty miles away, in a limestone mansion tucked behind the iron gates of Oak Street, Damen Moretti stood before a wall of monitors.
The screens displayed various feeds: the front gates of his estate, the loading docks of his shipping terminals along the Calumet River, and a high-definition stream of Room 402 at Saint Jude Medical Center.
On the center screen, Hannah Brooks sat on the edge of a hospital bed, her face pale, clutching a phone she had just pulled from her canvas bag. She was dialing the clinic's emergency line, only to hear the hollow, rapid-fire busy signal of a disconnected circuit.
"She's scared, boss," Marco said, stepping into the dim study with a fresh cup of espresso. He laid a thick manila folder on the mahogany desk. "And she's stubborn. She tried to check herself out five minutes ago, but the administrator on duty—the one we bought out in '21—told her her patient load had been legally reassigned to her under a special philanthropic grant."
Damen didn't look away from the screen. "Did she believe it?"
"She's a nurse, Damen. She cares more about compliance and patient care than she does about corporate structure. She saw three names of her regular diabetic patients on the intake sheet for Room 402, and she stopped walking toward the exit." Marco paused, leaning against the edge of the desk. "What are we doing here? You don't pull city strings and buy out hospital wings for strangers."
Damen finally turned. His gray eyes were cold, reflecting the pale morning light through the tall windows. "She isn't a stranger, Marco."
"You said last night you didn't know her."
"I didn't know her name. But I know what happens when someone smiles while their ribs are cracking." Damen walked over to the desk, his fingers tapping once against the manila folder. "Open it."
Marco flipped the cover open. Inside were photographs—grainy, black-and-white stills taken from a security camera inside an alley behind a North Side lounge nine years ago. They showed a young woman with dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, wearing a faded denim jacket. Sophia Moretti.
And right beside her, caught in the harsh glare of a streetlamp, was a man with a heavy gold signet ring on his right hand—a ring bearing the crest of the Vance family, one of the oldest and most ruthless syndicates in the Tri-State area.
"Vance," Marco breathed, the color draining slightly from his face. "Are you saying..."
"I'm saying Sophia didn't die in a random car accident," Damen said, his voice dropping an octave, turning into something resembling grinding stone. "The police report said she lost control on a wet curve. But the coroner's report—the real one that was buried before I took over my father's seat—noted compression fractures on both wrists. Identical to the bruises on Hannah Brooks's arm."
Marco stared at the photos, then back at the live monitor where Hannah was now standing up, smoothing down her navy coat with shaking hands.
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"You think the same people who broke your sister are coming for the nurse?"
"I don't think," Damen said, sliding his heavy overcoat over his shoulders and buttoning it with deliberate precision. "I'm going to make sure they find out what happens when they try."
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