Chapter 2 - The Midnight Extraction
The flashing red and blue strobe lights of Chicago police cruisers washed over the rain-slicked pavement outside Canali's, turning the wet asphalt into mirrors of blood and neon. Two patrol officers had cornered me in the back office, pepper-spraying me with the same three repetitive questions for forty-five minutes.
""Did you recognize him, Ms. Vance?"" the younger detective, a heavy-set man named Miller, barked while scribbling in his notebook. ""How did you know to raise the tray before he even raised his arm? Most civilian waitresses drop to the floor and soil themselves.""
""I told you,"" I repeated, my throat raw, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm tap water with trembling hands. ""It was just a reflex. I saw metal and I panicked.""
""A reflex that saved Callum Ferris's life,"" Miller muttered under his breath, exchanging a dark, skeptical look with his partner. ""Do you have any idea who that man is, Nadia? He runs the Ferris Syndicate. Half the port authorities and aldermen in Cook County eat out of his palm. People don't just coincidentally get between a Ferris contract and live to give a statement.""
Before I could defend myself, the office door clicked open. A suited man with an earpiece stepped into the frame, whispered something in the lead detective's ear, and produced a laminated card. Without another word to me, both detectives closed their notebooks, stood up, and walked out into the corridor, shutting the door behind them.
The sudden silence was suffocating. Then, the heavy wooden door pushed open once more.
Callum Ferris stepped inside.
He was alone. Up close, stripped of the dim amber lighting of the dining room, his features were carved from hard marble. A faint scar cut through the arch of his left eyebrow, and his dark overcoat smelled faintly of expensive cedarwood, rain, and burned gunpowder. He didn't sit down. He stood leaning casually against the closed door, his intense hazel eyes pinning me to the cheap vinyl chair.
""You have remarkable reflexes, Nadia Vance,"" he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that sent a sudden involuntary shiver down my spine.
""I just wanted to finish my shift and go home, Mr. Ferris,"" I said, attempting to sound steady, though my fingers betrayed me by rattling the paper cup. ""I don't know who that shooter was. I don't care about your business. Please, just tell your people to let me leave.""
A faint, humorless smirk curved the corner of his lips. ""If you walk out those front doors tonight, Nadia, you won't survive the bus ride back to Pilsen.""
A chill gathered in my stomach. ""What are you talking about?""
Callum reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a slim, clear evidence bag containing a crumpled black-and-white photograph. He stepped across the cramped office and tossed it onto the laminate desk in front of me.
I looked down. My breath caught violently in my throat.
It wasn't a surveillance picture of Callum Ferris. It was a photograph of me. Taken two days ago, walking out of my small apartment building on 18th Street, holding my worn canvas work bag. Scribbled across the bottom in smeared black marker was an address and a single word: ELIMINATE.
""The shooter wasn't there for me,"" Callum said quietly, watching every micro-expression on my face. ""He was there to execute you. My presence in that dining room was simply an unexpected obstacle.""
""That's impossible!"" My voice cracked with rising panic. ""I'm a server! I work eighty hours a week between Canali's and a wholesale bakery in Bridgeport just to keep up with my rent and student loans. I don't have enemies! I don't owe anyone money!""
""You don't,"" Callum agreed, taking one slow, deliberate step closer until his shadow completely enveloped me. ""But your father did. Thomas Vance didn't die of a sudden heart attack twelve years ago, little bird. He was the chief financial architect for the Moretti family. And before he disappeared, he stole twenty million dollars from their offshore vaults.""
The room seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Thomas Vance was a quiet, unassuming accountant who worked out of a modest suburban office—at least, that was the man I remembered holding my hand at the zoo before he vanished from our lives when I was twelve. My mother had always maintained he died of coronary failure in another state, refusing to speak of him again until her own death two years ago.
""My father was an accountant,"" I whispered in denial.
""He was a genius thief who outsmarted the deadliest syndicate in the Midwest,"" Callum corrected coldly. ""The Morettis have spent over a decade tracking down his bloodline. They believe you have the ledger. With Don Moretti's health failing, his psycho son, Victor, is hunting down every loose end. Tonight was his opening move.""
The door behind him opened again. The silver-haired man with the scarred neck stepped in, carrying my winter coat and bag. ""Perimeter is compromised, Boss. Two black sedans just parked two blocks down. Spotters are moving in.""
Callum didn't flinch. He extended a broad, calloused hand toward me. The gold signet ring on his pinky bore an intricate crest of an eagle wrapped in briars.
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""You have two choices, Nadia,"" Callum said softly, his gaze unyielding. ""Stay here and let CPD hand you over to Victor Moretti by sunrise. Or come with me, accept my protection, and help me finish the war your father started.""
I looked at his outstretched hand. The power radiating off him was terrifying, but the cold reality of that hitman's bullet on my serving tray was still burning in my palms. Swallowing the knot of fear in my throat, I placed my trembling hand in his. His grip was warm, unshakeable, and absolute.
