Chapter 4 - THE GHOST IN THE FRAME
The heater in Maya’s beat-up Honda Civic rattled violently as they pulled into the alley behind her crumbling apartment building in Little Village.
Roman Cassian, the ruthless king of the Chicago underworld, sat in the passenger seat of a car that smelled like vanilla air freshener and despair. His custom suit was ruined, soaked in dark blood.
"Up the fire escape," Maya whispered, helping him out of the car. "My landlord is nosy."
They climbed through her kitchen window. The apartment was tiny, drafty, and spotlessly clean. Maya rushed to the bathroom, grabbing a frayed towel and her meager first-aid kit.
"Take off your jacket," she ordered, her hands shaking.
Roman complied, his teeth gritted. As Maya pressed the towel to his grazed shoulder, he looked around her living room. It was bare, save for a few cheap decorations and a single framed photograph on a wobbly side table.
Roman’s eyes locked onto the photo. His entire body went rigid beneath Maya's hands.
"Where did you get that?" Roman demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
Maya looked at the photo. "That’s my husband, David. He died three years ago. It was a car accident."
Roman stared at the smiling face of the man in the picture. The silence in the small apartment grew so heavy it was hard to breathe.
"David wasn't in a car accident, Maya," Roman said softly, turning to look at her with an expression she couldn't read. Pity? Guilt? "David was one of my father's accountants. He embezzled three million dollars from the syndicate."
Maya stepped back, dropping the bloodied towel. "No. No, David was a salesman. He—he left me with nothing. Just debt."
"He left you with debt because he didn't die," Roman revealed, the truth hanging in the air like a guillotine. "He faked his death to escape my father's wrath. He let you take the fall with the bank."
Maya’s world spun. The cheap ring on her finger felt like a lead weight. David was alive? Her grief, her poverty, the bank threatening to take her home—it was all a lie?
Before she could process the betrayal, the floorboards in the hallway outside creaked.
Heavy, aggressive pounding hit her front door.
"Maya! Open up!" It was her landlord, Mr. Henderson. But his voice was trembling. "I—I have some men here who want to speak with you."
Roman kicked the first-aid kit under the couch and pulled his gun, aiming it directly at the flimsy wooden door.
May you like
"We need to leave. Now," Roman whispered.
But as they backed toward the fire escape, a red laser sight pierced through the window blind, painting a dot directly on Roman's chest.
