Chapter 4 - Blood in the Water
The Gold Coast brownstone where Eleanor Ellis lived was a relic of nineteenth-century Gilded Age architecture.
Wrought-iron gates twenty feet high guarded the perimeter, patrolled by plainclothes guards whose earpieces and tucked Glock 19s clashed violently with the manicured rose bushes and cobblestone driveway.
Three weeks had passed since I signed Adrian Voss's contract.
Three weeks of living in a luxurious high-rise apartment on North Michigan Avenue, where the front doorman was an ex-Navy SEAL and my morning commute to the Ellis-Voss Foundation was flanked by two armored Escalades.
My mother’s health had dramatically rebounded; Dr. Sterling's new protocol had reduced her inflammation by forty percent. For the first time in five years, Martha Carter had color in her cheeks.
My new life should have felt like a dream. Instead, it felt like balancing on the edge of a razor blade.
"More tea, sweetheart?" Eleanor asked, holding a silver pot over my porcelain cup.
We were sitting in the glass-enclosed conservatory at the back of the brownstone, surrounded by rare orchids and towering ferns. Eleanor was wearing an elegant lavender cardigan, looking far more rested than the day she had run away to eat an egg salad sandwich.
"Thank you, Eleanor," I said, accepting the cup. I placed my leather tablet on the wicker table between us. "I finished the initial audit of the South Side health clinic endowments. Your former director was skimming nearly twelve percent off the pharmacy supply contracts."
Eleanor sighed, setting the teapot down with a delicate rattle. "David was Arthur’s nephew. We gave him every opportunity to walk a straight path. But greed is an infection that runs deep in old money, Sophie. What did you do with the discrepancies?"
"I redirected the missing funds back into the insulin subsidies for the community program," I answered plainly. "And I fired the logistics firm handling the shipments."
Eleanor’s smile was soft, maternal, and tinged with deep sadness. "Adrian was right about you. You don't flinch when the numbers get ugly."
"I flinch every time I see six men with automatic rifles guarding the driveway, Eleanor," I admitted, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck. "I spent my life avoiding people who break laws. Now I'm signing payroll checks for men who have killed people."
Eleanor reached across the table, covering my hand with her warm, papery fingers.
"Adrian didn't choose the underworld, Sophie. It chose him."
I looked up, meeting her aged eyes. "He speaks like a man who was born with a gun in his hand."
"He was nine years old when Arthur found him in an abandoned rail yard near the Indiana border," Eleanor said quietly, her voice drifting back across decades. "His father had been a minor enforcer for the local Irish syndicate who got in over his head. They executed the father and left the boy in a steel shipping container in the dead of winter. Arthur was inspecting his rail cars that afternoon. When he pried the container doors open, Adrian didn't cry. He was half-frozen to death, holding a rusted iron pipe, ready to fight Arthur to the death."
A hollow sensation opened in my chest.
"Arthur saw something in him," Eleanor continued. "A fire that refused to be put out. We raised him, educated him at the best academies in Europe. But Chicago’s streets are a swamp, Sophie. When Arthur died, the old families—the Marcones, the Vances, the Morettis—they thought the Ellis empire was an open corpse ready to be picked clean. They tried to bomb this very house while Arthur was lying in state."
Her grip on my hand tightened.
"Adrian took up the gun because it was the only way to keep me alive. He became the monster so the people he loved wouldn't have to live in fear. Never forget that, child. He is ruthless, yes. But his loyalty is absolute."
Before I could reply, the heavy glass doors of the conservatory swung open.
Marcus appeared, his face tight, his posture rigid. "Miss Carter. We need to leave."
The tone of his voice instantly set off alarms in my head. "What happened?"
"Mr. Voss instructed me to escort you back to the Tower immediately. An incident occurred at the 31st Street logistics yard."
Eleanor’s face drained of color. "Marcus. Is Adrian injured?"
"The boss is unharmed, Mrs. Ellis," Marcus said smoothly, though his hand remained hovered over his sidearm. "Victor Moretti's men intercepted one of our transport trucks. Mr. Voss has already resolved the situation, but the area is not secure. Miss Carter, please."
I rose immediately, gathering my tablet and purse. "Eleanor, I'll call you as soon as—"
"Go," Eleanor insisted, her calm facade returning with practiced ease. "Stay close to Marcus. And Sophie? Remind Adrian that blood washes out of concrete, but it stains the soul forever."
***
The city was suffocating under a thick blanket of gray November fog as Marcus drove the Maybach south toward the Voss Tower.
The usual route along Lake Shore Drive was closed due to a sudden police checkpoint, forcing Marcus to take the lower levels of Michigan Avenue—a shadowed, subterranean network of concrete tunnels and loading docks beneath the sparkling luxury stores above.
"Marcus," I said, leaning forward toward the partition. "Why are we going through Lower Wacker? Adrian said never to take the lower tier."
"Main artery is choked with CPD," Marcus growled, his eyes darting between the mirrors. "Someone called in an anonymous bomb threat near the bridge. It's a diversion. Moretti is trying to bottleneck our convoy."
Just as the words left his mouth, a deafening crash reverberated through the tunnel.
From a dark cross-street beneath the Columbus Drive overpass, an armored garbage truck slammed directly into the rear escort vehicle following us. The impact crumpled the black Escalade like a tin can, spinning it across the concrete pillars before sending it into a wall of solid stone.
"Down!" Marcus bellowed.
Tires screeched as Marcus slammed the accelerator, the Maybach’s engine roaring as it surged forward. But ahead of us, a customized flatbed tow truck swung sideways, blocking both lanes of the subterranean tunnel.
We were boxed in.
"Stay on the floorboards, Miss Carter!" Marcus shouted, drawing his Glock and hitting the emergency beacon on the console. "Armor level is five! The glass will hold small arms, but do not move!"
A hail of automatic gunfire erupted in the tunnel.
The Maybach shuddered violently as dozens of heavy-caliber rounds pinged and shattered against the reinforced ballistic windshield. Webbed cracks spread across the glass like frost, but the windshield held.
Outside, five men wearing dark tactical gear and ballistic masks moved around the tow truck, leveling heavy assault rifles at our vehicle.
"They have armor-piercing rounds!" Marcus cursed, kicking open his driver door using it as a shield while returning fire. "Base, this is Echo-One! We are pinned on Lower Columbus! Send rapid response—"
A concussive blast blew through the tunnel.
A high-explosive grenade detonated beneath the front axle of the Maybach. The explosion lifted the front of the multi-ton luxury car three feet into the air, tossing me violently against the ceiling before slamming me back down into the twisted leather footwell.
My vision swam. A high-pitched ringing pierced my ears. Smoke—acrid, gray, and tasting of sulfur—poured through the shattered ventilation system.
Through the hazy, cracked window, I saw Marcus on the ground, clutching a bloody shoulder as two armed men kicked his weapon away and pinned him to the asphalt.
The rear door handle rattled.
The heavy lock mechanism hissed as a pneumatic crowbar cracked the reinforced latch. The heavy door was wrenched open.
A man stepped into the smoke. He wore an expensive gray cashmere coat, but his face was pitted with old acne scars, and his mouth was twisted into a cruel, triumphant sneer.
"Well, well," Julian Vance, Victor Moretti’s chief enforcer, chuckled, leaning down to peer into the wreckage. "Adrian’s little pet project. The saint of the diner."
He reached inside, his leather-gloved hand grabbing a fistful of my hair and dragging me out of the ruined Maybach onto the damp, oil-slicked concrete.
"Let go of me!" I screamed, kicking wildly, my heel catching him in the shin.
Vance grunted, backhanding me across the face with enough force to split my lip. Copper filled my mouth as I crashed onto the cold pavement.
"Shut up," Vance snarled, leveling a heavy revolver at my forehead. "You're coming with us, sweetheart. Victor wants to see if Adrian Voss bleeds the same color as the rest of us when we start mailing him pieces of his favorite charity case."
He pulled the hammer of the revolver back. The click sounded like a thunderclap in the concrete tunnel.
"Drop the iron, Julian."
The voice didn't come from behind Vance. It came from the shadows behind the nearest concrete pillar.
Cold. Utterly calm. Laced with an absolute, terrifying certainty.
Vance froze.
Adrian Voss stepped out of the darkness.
He wasn't wearing a suit jacket. He wore a fitted black tactical vest over a dark long-sleeve shirt, his hands holding a customized Benelli shotgun with lethal familiarity. Behind him, emerging from the fog like ghosts, were six men in heavy black tactical armor, laser sights illuminating the chests of Vance’s remaining gunmen.
"Adrian," Vance said, his voice tightening as he kept the revolver pointed at my head. "Take one more step and her brains paint the pillar."
Adrian didn't stop. He walked forward with smooth, predatory cadence, his shotgun resting casually across his forearm.
"You made two mistakes today, Julian," Adrian said, his slate eyes boring directly into Vance's skull.
"Yeah? What's that, Voss?"
"First, you assumed I would let Marcus transport my most valuable asset without shadowing the convoy myself."
Adrian stopped six feet away.
"And second?" Vance sneered, his finger tightening visibly on the trigger.
"You touched her."
May you like
Adrian fired.
***
