Chapter 2 - Blood in the Water
By the third day, the entire household was whispering. Faith Willis had survived seventy-two hours inside the Carter estate without running out the front gates in hysterics. She didn't flinch when I threw my files across the mahogany desk, she ignored my insults, and she made sure my meals were placed precisely where I had to sit up to reach them. Slowly, reluctantly, a silent routine established itself between us.
Every morning at eight, she would come in, open the velvet drapes to let the pale Chicago winter light wash over the room, and without saying a word, she would drop to her knees and stretch my calves and hamstrings. It was agonizing at times, but the violent nerve spasms that used to leave me weeping in the dark began to subside.
"You're getting sensation back in the left lateral quad," Faith observed on Friday morning, her thumbs pressing deeply into the tissue just above my knee.
I looked down, feeling a faint, dull prickle—like pins and needles waking up under ice. "The doctors at Northwestern said the spinal cord was completely severed by the shrapnel."
"Doctors read scans; bodies write their own rules," she replied, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. "The swelling around the lumbar sheath is going down. If you stopped drinking scotch at two in the morning and actually let me put you on the parallel bars in the gym, you might stand before the year is out."
A flicker of raw, dangerous hope ignited behind my ribs, terrifying in its intensity. Before I could process the thought, the door swung open without a knock.
Carmine walked in, carrying a leather ledger and a secure satellite phone. He stopped dead when he saw Faith kneeling at my feet, his eyes darkening with open hostility.
"You're still here, sweetheart?" Carmine sneered, leaning against the doorframe. "I thought you'd be back at the bus stop by now."
Faith didn't even look up as she adjusted my pant leg. "I like the view, Carmine. Mostly because you're rarely in it."
Carmine’s smile vanished, his hand twitching toward his coat. "Watch your mouth, little girl. You're a guest on borrowed time."
"That's enough, Carmine," I cut in, my voice cold and lethal. The room temperature plummeted instantly. "You don't enter my room without knocking. Have you forgotten who sits at the head of this table?"
Carmine swallowed hard, forcing a tight, deferential nod, though a subtle smirk lingered at the corner of his thin lips. "My apologies, Boss. We have an urgent problem at the Navy Pier terminals. The shipment from Montreal was intercepted by federal agents an hour ago. Three million in specialized hardware, gone."
My pulse hammered. "Intercepted? That route was known only to four people in this syndicate. You, me, Sal, and Jimmy."
"Sal and Jimmy were both on the docks; they got pinched," Carmine said, stepping closer and tapping the ledger. "Somebody sang, Dominic. The feds knew the exact container numbers, the seal codes, and the delivery window. The street is talking. They're saying the Carter family is blind and crippled. The Rossi syndicate is already moving their crews into our territory on 26th Street."
I slammed my fist onto the desk, rattling the bronze pens. "Rossi doesn't have the stomach to cross the river. Not unless he knows for sure I can't leave this house."
"Well, Boss... you haven't left this house in six months," Carmine said, his voice dropping into a tone that rode the razor-thin line between loyalty and blatant disrespect. "The captains are getting nervous. They want a sit-down. Tomorrow night, at the warehouse on Iron Street. They want to see you face-to-face. If you don't show, they're going to declare the seat vacant and back Rossi."
"A sit-down?" I asked, narrowing my eyes. "They want me to roll in with a ramp and a medical van?"
"I told them you'd be there," Carmine said, his eyes glittering with an unreadable light. "I told them Dominic Carter isn't dead yet. I'll have the armored Escalade ready at eight."
He turned and walked out, his expensive leather boots clicking rhythmically against the marble floor.
I sat there, my breath shallow, the walls of the mansion closing in like a concrete tomb. Iron Street was Rossi's old stomping ground. It was an industrial bottleneck with only two exit routes. If I rolled in there vulnerable, seated in a metal chair, I would never make it back across the bridge.
"He's setting you up," a quiet voice said from the floor.
I blinked, looking down at Faith. She had finished rolling up her towel and was standing by the window, watching Carmine's black sedan pull out of the front courtyard.
May you like
"What did you say?" I demanded.
"I grew up around rats, Mr. Carter," Faith said, turning to face me with absolute certainty in her eyes. "My uncle ran numbers for the neighborhood crews until he ended up in the trunk of a Buick. The guys who are going to kill you don't look angry; they look helpful. That man just gave you an invitation to your own funeral."
