Chapter 4 - Blood on the Snow
-4-
The distant wail of police sirens grew louder, harmonizing with the harsh shriek of a fire truck horn echoing up from Michigan Avenue. Lena stood frozen by the mahogany desk, her hands resting flat against the cool wood as she watched Alistair Vance stare down at the chaotic scene unfolding four floors below.
The snow falling over the intersection was stained red and amber by the flashing lights of three squad cars and an unmarked black sedan that had evidently tried to run a roadblock and ended up smashed against a concrete lamppost.
"Mrs. Gable," Alistair said without turning around, his voice calm, steady, and terrifyingly devoid of panic.
"Yes, Mr. Vance?" the older woman responded instantly, stepping out from the hallway with a tablet in her hand.
"Notify Vincent that the delegation from Cicero has arrived early," Alistair instructed, his dark eyes narrowing as he watched two officers pull a man in a blood-soaked leather jacket out of the wrecked sedan. "And tell him to clean up the intersection before the lunch crowd starts filing into Calloway’s downstairs. I will not have my patrons stepping over North Side trash on their way in to eat."
"Right away," Mrs. Gable murmured, tapping furiously on her tablet before marching off toward the private elevator bank.
Lena’s heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird. North Side trash. Cicero. She read the papers; everyone in Chicago knew what happened when the North Side syndicate tried to muscle in on Alistair Vance’s territory. It wasn't corporate competition—it was a turf war fought with illegal gambling dens, dockworker unions, and lead pipes in freezing alleys.
"Is someone... is someone hurt down there?" Lena asked, her voice trembling as she stepped toward the window.
Alistair turned around, his gaze sweeping over her with a sharp, protective intensity that made her skin prickle.
"People get hurt when they forget who owns the city, Lena," Alistair said, walking slowly back across the white marble floor toward his private office. He stopped at the threshold, looking over his shoulder. "Bring your tablet. I have a letter from the City Council regarding the downtown waterfront permits that needs your immediate attention. And leave the window alone—the view is none of your concern."
For the next four hours, Lena tried desperately to focus on the cryptographic filing system, the municipal zoning codes, and the endless spreadsheets of shell companies. But every time a car horn blared outside on Michigan Avenue, her muscles tightened, expecting a hail of bullets to shatter the soundproof glass of the fourth-floor sanctuary.
Alistair remained locked in his office, his voice occasionally rumbling through the closed door as he held meetings with men whose heavy coats smelled of wet wool and gunmetal. Vincent Marsh—the cold-eyed enforcer who had warned her on her very first day—walked past her desk twice, carrying a locked steel briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, ignoring her entirely both times.
By 1:00 PM, the restaurant downstairs was reportedly packed. Mrs. Gable marched through the office with a silver tray containing a grilled chicken salad and sparkling water for Lena, setting it down with the gentleness one might afford a caged animal.
"Eat," Mrs. Gable commanded. "Mr. Vance hates when his staff faint from malnutrition. It looks unprofessional."
"Mrs. Gable," Lena whispered as the older woman turned to leave. "What is this place? Really? Calloway’s... it’s just a restaurant on the menu, but... what are we actually doing here?"
Mrs. Gable paused, her sharp blue eyes softening by a fraction. She looked down the empty hallway toward Alistair’s closed door before leaning in close.
"Calloway’s is a kitchen, Miss Cruz. And kitchens are where you feed people," Mrs. Gable said quietly. "Sometimes, you feed them steak and wine. Sometimes, you feed them lead. But make no mistake—Mr. Vance is the only reason you can walk down these streets without looking over your shoulder. Remember that before you ask too many questions."
The warning hung in the air long after Mrs. Gable marched away.
At 3:30 PM, the frosted glass door of Alistair’s office swung open. Alistair stepped out, wearing his dark overcoat, pulling on a pair of leather gloves with deliberate, fluid motions.
"Pack your things, Lena," he said.
She stood up immediately, her heart skipping a beat. "Are... are we being evacuated? Is someone coming up here?"
"I am taking you and Nora home," Alistair stated, walking toward the private elevator bank. "The North Side sent a message this morning. I am going to return it in person. And I prefer my house to be fully secured before dark."
"Your house?" Lena echoed, grabbing her coat from the cloakroom. "You mean my apartment on Racine Street?"
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Alistair stopped, pressing the call button for the private lift. He turned his head, looking at her with a gaze that brooked no argument.
"Did you honestly think I would leave the mother of the child who saved my daughter’s life in a third-floor walk-up with a broken front door?" Alistair asked, a rare, chilling smile touching his lips. "The Racine Street lease has been terminated. You and Nora are moving into the Voss estate tonight."
