Chapter 2 - THE LAUNDRY CHUTE
“Viko,” Adrien said, his voice flat, stripped of the quiet warmth it had held just moments ago on the subway platform. “We need to discuss tomorrow night.”
On the other end of the line, the silence stretched just a fraction of a second too long.
“Tomorrow night?” Viko repeated. His tone was perfectly measured, the practiced calm of a man who had lied for a living since he was a teenager. “The penthouse meeting. We’re finalizing the West Side territory lines. Just like we planned.”
Adrien stared at the folded piece of hotel stationery in his hand. Someone close to you is planning something tomorrow night. Meeting in your suite. Please be careful.
“Change of plans,” Adrien said, watching the streetlights of Chicago reflect against the floor-to-ceiling glass. “Move the meeting to the warehouse on 47th. Tonight. Midnight.”
“Tonight? Boss, the lieutenants are expecting—”
“Midnight, Viko.”
Adrien hung up. He didn’t wait for an agreement. A boss didn’t ask for permission, and Adrien needed Viko off-balance. The warehouse on 47th was neutral ground, stripped of the tactical advantages Suite 1908 offered. If Viko was planning a coup, he would now have to scramble to reposition his men.
But Adrien’s mind wasn’t solely on his traitorous lieutenant. It was on the girl who had slid the note under his door.
Lena Carter.
She had risked her life to warn a man she believed was a criminal. She had heard a death sentence pronounced in the shadows and stepped into the light to stop it. Adrien slipped a heavy silver rosary—tarnished and old, the one object he had salvaged from the explosion three years ago—into his pocket. He grabbed his coat, checked the magazine of his Sig Sauer, and left the suite. He wasn't leaving the hotel to run. He was leaving to find her.
Down in the basement, the laundry room hummed with the deafening roar of commercial washers.
Lena pushed a heavy canvas cart toward the freight elevator. Her shoulders ached. Her shift was technically over, but Mrs. Chen had demanded all VIP linens folded before clock-out. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly green pallor over the concrete walls. She just wanted to go home. She wanted to lock her deadbolt, pull the covers over her head, and pretend the nineteenth floor didn’t exist.
The freight elevator doors rumbled open.
Lena stepped back to let it empty, but there were no carts inside.
Three men stepped out. They wore dark suits, their ties loosened, their eyes scanning the basement with predatory efficiency. Lena recognized the tallest one immediately. He was the man from the subway platform. The one who had reached into his jacket before Adrien appeared.
Her breath caught in her throat.
“Lock the stairwell,” the tall man said to one of his companions. He turned his dead eyes toward Lena. “Miss Carter. We didn’t get to finish our conversation.”
Lena backed away, her hands gripping the edge of the laundry cart. “I already told you, I don’t know anything.”
“And I told you, that’s not for you to decide.” The man pulled a suppressed pistol from his coat. The black metal swallowed the harsh basement light. “Viko wants to know exactly what you saw in 1908. And more importantly, he wants to know what you told Mr. Moretti.”
“Nothing!” Lena’s voice cracked. She shoved the heavy canvas cart directly at him.
The cart slammed into the man’s knees. He grunted, stumbling back. Lena didn't wait to see him recover. She turned and sprinted down the narrow corridor between the massive, churning washing machines. The roar of the water and the spinning drums masked the sound of her footsteps, but she could hear the men shouting behind her.
She rounded a corner, slipping on a puddle of soapy water, her hip slamming hard into a metal pipe. Pain flared, hot and sharp, but adrenaline pushed it down. She reached the heavy steel fire door at the end of the hall and slammed her weight against the push-bar.
Locked.
They had already secured the exits.
She spun around, trapped in a dead-end alcove filled with towering stacks of folded white sheets. The tall man appeared at the end of the aisle. He raised the gun.
“Stupid girl,” he sneered.
A shadow dropped from the grated catwalk above.
Adrien landed silently behind the man. In one fluid, brutal motion, he grabbed the back of the man’s suit jacket, swept his leg, and drove the assassin face-first into the concrete floor. The suppressed gun clattered away, spinning into the darkness beneath a dryer.
The other two men rounded the corner. Adrien didn't hesitate. He drew his own weapon and fired twice. The concussive blasts were deafening in the enclosed concrete space. The two men dropped, clutching their legs, incapacitated but alive. Adrien never killed unnecessarily—a rule that had made him weak in Viko’s eyes, but a rule he refused to break.
Adrien kicked their weapons out of reach and turned to Lena. His chest heaved slightly, his gray eyes blazing with a dangerous light.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, closing the distance between them.
“No,” Lena gasped, pressing her hands against her chest to keep her heart from exploding out of her ribs. “How did you find me?”
“You left a note.” Adrien reached into his pocket and pulled out the hotel stationery. “Why did you do it? You knew they were killers. You could have walked away.”
“They were going to kill you,” Lena said, her voice shaking but her chin lifting in defiance. “I couldn't just do nothing.”
Adrien stared at her. For three years, he had lived in a world of transactional loyalty. People only warned you if they wanted something in return. Lena Carter wanted nothing but to survive, yet she had risked everything for a stranger.
“We have to move,” Adrien said, grabbing her hand. His grip was warm, solid, anchoring her in the chaos. “Viko will have more men covering the lobby.”
“The loading dock,” Lena said quickly, her mind racing. “The overnight delivery trucks leave at nine. It’s eight-fifty. If we take the service ramp, we can slip into the back of the linen truck.”
Adrien nodded. “Lead the way.”
They ran. Lena guided him through the labyrinth of the hotel’s underbelly, dodging security cameras she had memorized during her grueling first weeks. They reached the loading dock just as a massive white box truck was rolling down its rear door.
Adrien hoisted Lena up onto the bumper, sliding under the descending metal door just before it slammed shut. Darkness swallowed them. The truck lurched forward, the engine roaring as it pulled out into the freezing Chicago night.
They were safe. For now.
Lena slumped against a mound of dirty hotel towels, gasping for air. Adrien sat beside her, the sliver of moonlight from a cracked roof vent illuminating the sharp angles of his face. As he moved, something fell from his coat pocket with a soft clink against the metal floor.
Lena reached out and picked it up. It was a heavy silver rosary. But the crucifix was warped, the metal melted and scarred as if it had been in a terrible fire.
The warehouse explosion.
“You kept this,” she whispered, tracing the melted silver.
Adrien looked away, his jaw tightening. “It belonged to my wife. She was wearing it the night she died.”
Lena’s breath hitched. She had read the articles. The media had claimed Adrien Moretti died in the blast alongside his empire. They had never mentioned a wife.
“I’m sorry,” Lena said softly, offering the rosary back to him.
Adrien took it, his fingers brushing hers. “Viko set the fire,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper. “He wanted the syndicate. He knew I would never step down. So he tried to burn me out. He killed Maria, and he thought he killed me.”
“Why didn’t you come back?” Lena asked. “Why stay dead for three years?”
“Because I had to protect what she left behind.”
The truck hit a pothole, throwing them closer together. Adrien didn't pull away. He looked at Lena, the walls he had built for three years finally cracking.
Forty minutes later, the truck stopped at a red light in the quiet suburbs of Evanston. Adrien forced the back door open. They slipped out into the cold night, letting the truck drive away. He led her down a tree-lined street to a nondescript brownstone house.
He punched a code into the keypad. The heavy oak door clicked open.
“Where are we?” Lena asked, stepping into a dimly lit hallway that smelled of lavender and floor wax.
Before Adrien could answer, the soft patter of small feet echoed from the top of the stairs.
May you like
Lena looked up. Standing on the landing, clutching a battered stuffed bear, was a little boy with dark, messy hair and big gray eyes. Eyes that looked exactly like Adrien’s.
“Daddy?” the boy rubbed his eyes sleepily. “You’re late.”
