Chapter 4 - The Golden Cage
The penthouse atop the St. Regis was an alien world.
Spanning two entire floors with forty-foot glass walls that looked out over a storm-lashed Lake Michigan, it felt less like a home and more like an eagle's aerie. The floors were slabs of pale Italian travertine; the furniture was minimalist, stark, and shockingly expensive.
Sam was currently sitting in the middle of a plush, cream-colored wool rug in the primary guest suite, chewing furiously on a rubber spatula one of the chefs had apparently handed him. He looked up when I entered, his big hazel eyes widening before he let out a joyful, toothless shriek: ""Mama!""
I fell to my knees, scooping him into my arms and burying my face in the curve of his neck. He smelled like baby powder and vanilla, completely oblivious to the fact that our entire world had burned down three miles south.
""I’ve got you,"" I whispered, rocking him as my tears soaked his blue onesie. ""Mama’s got you, baby. You’re safe.""
Behind me, the door clicked open. A woman in her late fifties dressed in a sharp gray skirt suit walked in, carrying two large shopping bags bearing the logo of an upscale department store on Michigan Avenue.
""I am Clara,"" the woman introduced herself with crisp precision. ""Mr. Hayes instructed me to see to your immediate needs. Inside these bags are baby clothes, hypoallergenic formula, diapers, bottles, and three changes of clothes for you. A pediatrician will arrive at nine tomorrow morning to evaluate the child’s milestones.""
I stared at her, still clutching Sam. ""Pediatrician? I can't afford—""
""Mr. Hayes has already covered all expenses under the household retainer,"" Clara cut in smoothly. ""Your bedroom is through that archway. The bathroom features an oversized soaking tub. There is fresh chicken and vegetable purée in the mini-refrigerator. Dinner for you will be brought up in twenty minutes.""
""Where is he?"" I asked, looking past her into the cavernous hallway.
""Mr. Hayes has business in the city tonight,"" Clara said, her tone devoid of emotion. ""He expects you to be rested by seven tomorrow morning. Your duties begin then.""
When the door shut, I locked it. I sat in the deep porcelain tub with Sam, washing the city grime from his little limbs, watching him splash with pure delight in water that stayed hot for as long as I wanted. For ten months, I had bathed him in a cracked plastic basin using water heated in a microwave. Seeing him splash happily under a waterfall shower fixture broke something deep inside my chest—a wall of survival instinct that I hadn't realized was holding me together.
I dressed him in a brand-new, ultra-soft fleece sleep sack. Within ten minutes, exhausted by the day’s chaos, he was sound asleep in a white wooden crib that looked like it had been assembled just an hour prior.
I couldn't sleep.
Around two in the morning, dressed in an oversized gray cashmere sweater and leggings from the shopping bag, I slipped out of the room to find water. The penthouse was pitch-black, save for the blue ambient glow of the city lights pouring through the glass.
As I neared the grand staircase, a soft murmur of voices reached me from the lower library.
""The docks in Gary are compromised, Ethan,"" a rough voice was saying—Dante. ""The Moretti family knows the shipment arrived. They think because you’re distracted by the city council elections, they can squeeze the southern corridor.""
""Let them squeeze,"" Ethan’s voice replied. It was lower now, deadlier, vibrating through the floorboards. ""Tell Victor to let the first two trucks pass through without resistance. Let them think we’re weak. When they move on the third warehouse tomorrow night, lock the perimeter gates from the outside. Burn the inventory.""
""And the men inside?""
""Leave no witnesses to file a police report.""
I clamped a hand over my mouth, freezing against the wall.
Leave no witnesses.
My breath hitched. In the silence of the library, the tiny gasp sounded like a gunshot.
""Dante,"" Ethan’s voice dropped like an iron portcullis. ""Wait outside.""
May you like
Footsteps approached the doorway. Before I could turn and run, Ethan stepped into the hall. He had removed his jacket, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms covered in intricate, dark tattoos—ancient script, thorned vines, and Roman numerals.
In his right hand, he held a tumbler of amber liquid. In his left, a Beretta nine-millimeter pistol.
