Chapter 2 - The Bulletproof Cage
The ride to Gabriel’s estate on the North Shore was conducted in absolute silence.
I sat in the back of a bulletproof Mercedes Maybach flanked by Franco, while Gabriel rode in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead through the tinted glass. The Chicago skyline blurred past under a gray, bruised sky, the city looking cold and indifferent to my grief.
When the car turned through heavy wrought-iron gates guarded by men holding submachine guns tucked inside long coats, I realized just how sheltered Natalie’s "artistic" life had been. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress disguised as a sprawling stone mansion overlooking Lake Michigan.
Inside, the house smelled of polished mahogany and old leather. High ceilings, minimalist art, and a terrifying absence of clutter made the place feel like a museum of power.
Gabriel led me straight into a massive, glass-walled study overlooking the churning gray waves of the lake. He gestured toward a leather armchair by the unlit fireplace.
"Sit," he commanded, pouring a measure of dark amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler without offering any to me.
I remained standing, crossing my arms over my chest. "I’d rather stand, thank you. And I’d rather you stopped treating me like a suspect in a crime I only found out about seventy-two hours ago."
Gabriel took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. "Everyone who enters this house is a suspect until proven otherwise, Miss Cooper. Especially someone who looks precisely like the woman buried an hour ago, yet claims she hasn't spoken to her in three years."
"Check my phone records. Check my bank statements. I live in Seattle. I manage an antique restoration shop. I haven't set foot in Illinois since the day Natalie packed her bags and told me I was small-minded," I snapped, the built-up grief finally cracking my composure. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I flew across the country because I wanted to play dress-up at my twin sister’s funeral?"
Gabriel set his glass down on the desk with a sharp clink. The force of the sound made me flinch internally, though I kept my expression hard.
"Natalie didn't die of a simple accident," Gabriel said softly, the anger draining from his voice to be replaced by something far more chilling. "The police report called it a single-vehicle collision. They said she hydroplaned on Lake Shore Drive, hit a concrete pillar, and her car burst into flames."
A cold shiver crept down my spine. "Wasn't she a careful driver?"
"She was meticulous," Gabriel said, walking slowly toward me until he was towering over my frame. "She checked her tires twice a week. She hated speeding. And the stretch of road where she supposedly crashed? There was no ice, no oil, and no skid marks."
I stared up at him, my breath catching in my throat. "Then why did the police—"
"Because in Chicago, local police departments write whatever report the highest bidder pays for," a new voice interrupted from the doorway.
May you like
Franco Rinaldi stepped into the study, carrying a manila folder thick with photographs and glossy printouts. He tossed it onto the center of Gabriel’s desk.
"That's why," Franco said quietly. "And that's why we brought you here, Lauren. Because whoever killed Natalie didn't just want her dead. They wanted a message delivered to the Donatelli family. And they didn't count on her twin sister showing up wearing her exact face."
