Chapter 6 - The Sanctuary on Central Street
The rain had turned to heavy, wet snow by the time Adrian’s unmarked SUV pulled onto the quiet, tree-lined street in Evanston.
The neighborhood was lined with modest brick bungalows and weeping willows coated in ice.
It was a world away from the fortified compounds of Lake Forest and the glass towers of downtown Chicago.
Adrian killed the headlights, parking fifty yards down from a small, two-story craftsman house with yellow light spilling warmly from the front windows.
The house belonged to Claire’s childhood art teacher, a woman who had retired twenty years ago and had no ties to the Mercer name.
Adrian sat in the cold vehicle for five minutes, watching the silhouette of a woman moving slowly behind the sheer curtains of the second-floor bedroom.
His heart slammed against his ribs like a sledgehammer.
He took off his heavy leather gun holster, locking it in the glove compartment.
He removed his gold signet ring—the ring of the Mercer syndicate—and dropped it onto the passenger seat.
He stepped out into the falling snow wearing only his dark sweater and trousers, the cold flakes melting instantly against his burning neck.
He walked up the wooden porch steps, every creak of the floorboards sounding like an indictment.
He didn't knock with the heavy, demanding rhythm of a mob boss.
He tapped gently on the frosted glass pane three times.
The lock clicked softly from within.
The door swung inward, and Claire stood in the entryway, wrapped in an oversized gray wool cardigan, holding a mug of steaming chamomile tea.
When she saw his face, the mug slipped from her grasp, crashing onto the wooden floorboards and splashing hot liquid across her bare feet.
She stumbled backward, her hand flying instinctively to her abdomen, her eyes wide with raw, unadulterated terror.
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“How did you find me?” she choked out, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
“Please... Adrian, don't take them. They’re mine.”
