Chapter 7 - The Architect of the War
-7-
The west wing suite was warmer than the rest of the chateau, its private fireplace roaring with cedar logs that cast a flickering, golden glow across the silk-lined walls. Mrs. Gable stood by the door with her hands folded neatly over her apron, her face as impassive as stone, though her eyes betrayed a nervous tension.
"Give me the child," Mrs. Gable said gently, holding out her arms for Nora.
Lena hesitated, pressing the baby tighter to her chest. "Is he going to live? Vincent?"
"Mr. Marsh has survived worse than a shoulder wound," Mrs. Gable replied, her tone clinical. "Dr. Aris is the best trauma surgeon money can buy—and money is something Mr. Vance has in abundance. Now, please, Miss Cruz. Give me the baby. You need to sit down."
Nora stirred, letting out a soft whimper as Lena transferred her into the housekeeper's practiced arms. Lena sank onto the edge of the velvet armchair near the fire, staring at her hands. They were trembling. Faint, invisible streaks of Vincent’s blood seemed to coat her palms, though she hadn't touched him.
The reality of her situation crashed down on her with the force of an avalanche. She wasn't a corporate secretary. She wasn't a cherished guest. She was a hostage to fortune, locked inside a gilded cage while a bloody gang war raged outside in the snowy streets of Chicago.
"Mrs. Gable," Lena whispered, looking up at the older woman. "Who are they fighting? Why won't they just leave each other alone?"
Mrs. Gable paused, rocking Nora gently against her shoulder. She looked around the empty room before walking over to the fireplace, her voice dropping into a low, confidential murmur.
"The North Side and the Voss family have shared this city for forty years, Miss Cruz," Mrs. Gable said. "An uneasy peace built on docks, union votes, and blood money. But two weeks ago, a shipment of digital bearer bonds—untraceable currency worth over fifty million dollars—vanished from a federal transport ship docked in Lake Michigan."
Lena’s breath caught. "And the North Side thinks Alistair took them?"
"They don't just think it," Mrs. Gable sighed. "They know it. And Mr. Vance has no intention of giving them back. The war was coming the moment the ship docked. Your arrival in his life merely accelerated the timeline."
Before Lena could process the staggering scale of the conspiracy, the heavy double doors of the west wing suite burst open.
Alistair stood in the threshold. His dark suit jacket was discarded, his white shirt stained with crimson across the chest and sleeves. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes burned with an unholy, terrifying fire.
"Pack a bag, Lena," Alistair said, his voice dropping into that absolute, unyielding command.
"Pack a bag?" Lena stood up from the armchair, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Why? Where are we going?"
"The chateau is no longer secure," Alistair stated, walking into the room and grabbing a heavy leather duffel bag from the closet. "Vincent is stabilized, but the North Side knows where I live now. They are sending a bomb squad to level the estate by dawn."
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He looked at Lena, his obsidian eyes locking onto hers with a desperate, fierce intensity that made her breath hitch.
"We are running, Lena. And you are coming with me."
