Chapter 1 - The Corner of the Ficus
The air in the grand sitting room froze solid. The two armed enforcers standing near the arched entryway, men who had broken kneecaps in abandoned warehouses along the Chicago River, looked as though they were watching a grenade bounce across the polished Carrara marble. One of them, a scarred veteran named Dante, had his hand hovering inches from his shoulder holster, utterly paralyzed by the scene unfolding before him.
Vincent Marquetti stood at his full, imposing height of six feet three inches. His tailored charcoal suit fell in sharp lines around broad, dangerous shoulders. The phone in his hand was still live, an associate in New York frantically squawking through the speaker about a hijacked shipping container on Lake Michigan. Vincent hit the red disconnect button without looking at the screen, his dark, obsidian eyes fixed squarely on my four-year-old daughter.
I threw myself between them, dropping to my knees on the cold floor and dragging Lily behind my back. My voice shook with raw, suffocating panic. "Mr. Marquetti, please! She's only four! She has no idea who you are or what this house is! Take it out of my salary, fire me right now, but please don't hurt her!"
Lily poked her head out from behind my apron, her brow furrowed in utter defiance. "Mommy, he didn't wash his hands either! That's four rules!"
"Lily, stop!" I gasped, tears burning my eyes.
Vincent stared at my child. For ten agonizing seconds, the silence stretched so thin you could hear the autumn wind rattling the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the estate's private forest. Then, a muscle in his sharp jaw twitched. His gaze shifted from Lily's determined little face to the large potted ficus tree tucked neatly into the far corner of the formal parlor.
He looked down at his bespoke leather dress shoes resting inches from the pristine white couch cushions.
"How long?" Vincent asked. His voice was a low, resonant rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, but it lacked the lethal fury that usually preceded an execution.
Lily stepped out from behind me, puffing out her chest in her dinosaur-print pajamas and bright yellow socks. "Four minutes. One minute for every rule."
Dante choked on a cough. Beside him, the second guard, Leo, turned his head toward the wall, his shoulders shaking in a desperate effort to suppress hysterical laughter.
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Without uttering another word, the undisputed king of Chicago’s criminal underworld unbuttoned his suit jacket, turned on his heel, and walked across the Persian rug. He stopped in the corner between the ficus and the gold-leaf molding, faced the blank wall, folded his arms over his chest, and stood completely still.
I sat on the floor, surrounded by rolling yellow lemons, unable to draw breath. Chicago's deadliest predator had just accepted time-out from a toddler.
