Chapter 4 - Shadows on the South Side
By midnight, the heavy autumn rain had turned Chicago’s streets into a shimmering maze of neon reflections.
Ivy sat near the back of the crowded number eight bus, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window as the drab industrial blocks of the South Side rolled past. The heavy wool of her thrift-store coat offered little protection against the damp chill seeping through the old bus chassis, but she barely noticed. Her hands, resting in her lap, were still tingling with the memory of the conversation in the private room.
She wasn't naive. She knew who Matteo Rinaldi was—at least, she knew the myth. Everyone on the South Side heard the stories: the dockyards he controlled, the zoning disputes that mysteriously resolved in his favor, the ruthless efficiency with which he protected his inner circle. A waitress from Le Chevalier had no business crossing paths with a man like that, let alone sharing a quiet, secret language over a plate of duck confit.
Yet, as she stepped off the bus into the misty downpour and hurried down the cracked pavement of her residential block, her thoughts weren't on the mafia boss. They were on Eli.
The light in the second-floor apartment window was on—a steady, warm amber glow that always meant her brother was awake, reading or studying his design sketches.
Ivy unlocked the heavy front door of the faded brick walk-up, shaking the rain from her umbrella before stepping into the narrow hallway. The smell of boiled pasta and old paper greeted her—the familiar, comforting scent of home.
“Eli?” she called out, shucking off her damp shoes.
A door at the end of the hall swung open instantly, and a tall, lanky seventeen-year-old boy with messy copper hair and bright, intelligent gray eyes stepped out. He signed rapidly with both hands before speaking aloud, his voice carrying the slight, flat cadence typical of someone who lost his hearing after speech patterns were already formed.
You’re late. I finished my physics homework an hour ago and ate half the leftover casserole.
Ivy smiled, the exhaustion of a twelve-hour double shift melting away at the sight of him. She signed back, her hands moving with fluid affection. Sorry, kiddo. VIP section tonight. It was... complicated.
Eli tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing playfully. Did another pretentious guy spill red wine on his white shirt?
“Worse,” Ivy laughed softly, hanging her coat on the peg by the door. “He didn't spill a drop. And he spoke my language.”
Before Eli could ask what she meant, the landline telephone on the kitchen wall let out a sharp, jarring ring.
Ivy froze. People didn't call their landline at 12:30 AM unless something was horribly wrong. Her mind instantly flashed to worst-case scenarios: an eviction notice, an emergency at the community center, or—worst of all—some retaliatory move from Colin Draper.
She strode across the linoleum floor and snatched the receiver off the cradle.
“Hello?” she said, her voice taut with defensive tension.
For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy static and distant traffic on the line. Then, a deep, resonant voice spoke through the earpiece—a voice she had not heard spoken aloud all evening, but one she recognized instantly.
“Ivy Sharpe?”
May you like
“Who is this?” she demanded, her heart hammering against her ribs.
“My name is Matteo Rinaldi,” the voice said, smooth, measured, and entirely unhurried. “I apologize for calling so late. But there is a matter regarding Le Chevalier—and your employment there tomorrow morning—that I believe requires our immediate attention.”
