Chapter 2 - The Black Sedan
The bitter Chicago wind cut through my thin winter coat like a switchblade as I exited the service door of Bellamy’s at 11:30 P.M. Snow was falling heavily now, dusting the grease-stained asphalt of the alleyway in pristine white.
My mind was racing. I had the USB drive tucked into the zippered inner pocket of my purse, burning against my ribs like a live wire.
*He knows you lied.*
Of course Dominic knew. Men like Dominic Vale didn’t survive decades atop the Chicago underworld by being blind. He was testing me. But Caleb’s warning was what truly terrified me. *The car that follows you home tonight isn’t his. It’s mine.*
I reached the mouth of the alley, pulling my wool scarf higher over my mouth. The street was largely deserted, save for the occasional yellow cab splashing through slush. Then I saw it.
Parked twenty yards down under the flickering amber light of a broken streetlamp was a dark gray Audi sedan. No plates on the front bumper. The engine was idling, a thin wisp of white exhaust coiling into the freezing air.
My instincts screamed at me to sprint toward the Red Line station. I was just a waitress. I lived in a third-floor walk-up in Bridgeport with chipped paint, radiator clanks, and memories of my dead brother. I didn’t belong in a mafia war.
I turned north, quickening my pace.
Behind me, a car door clicked open and shut. Heavy footsteps crunched in the snow.
Panic seized my chest. I broke into a jog, my cheap boots slipping on the slick pavement. Before I could make it ten yards, a rough hand grabbed the hood of my coat, yanking me backward into the shadow of an awning.
“Quiet,” a low voice hissed.
I opened my mouth to scream, raising my purse like a weapon, but the man caught my wrist with effortless, bruising strength.
It wasn’t one of Dominic’s bulky thugs. It was a younger man, dressed in dark tactical street clothes, a ballcap pulled low over his eyes.
“Hannah Mercer, stop swinging,” he whispered urgently. “Look at me. Look at the car.”
I blinked through the stinging snow. The rear window of the Audi was rolling down.
Sitting in the backseat, illuminated by the soft interior dome light, was Caleb Vale.
He wasn't wearing the submissive, slouching posture he’d maintained at Bellamy’s. He sat upright, his broad shoulders squared, dressed in an immaculate charcoal turtleneck. His jaw was set, his dark eyes sharp and piercing.
He raised two hands into the frame of the window.
*Get in. Sal is two blocks behind you. Dominic didn’t believe you for a second.*
The man holding my wrist released me and opened the rear door of the Audi. “Please, Miss Mercer. We don’t have time. Dominic sent Sal to take you to a warehouse off 35th. He wants to know what Caleb’s been hiding.”
The cold reality hit me like an avalanche. If Sal picked me up, I wouldn’t survive the night. Dominic Vale didn't conduct polite interviews; he extracted confessions with pliers and blowtorches.
I made my decision. I lunged into the backseat of the Audi.
The door slammed shut. The young driver leaped into the front seat, threw the car into gear, and the Audi surged forward into traffic just as a black Lincoln Navigator swung around the corner behind us, its high beams cutting through the blizzard.
I pressed my back against the leather seat, gasping for breath, my chest heaving.
Next to me, Caleb didn't flinch. He picked up an iPad resting on the center console, his long fingers flying across the screen. He turned the display toward me.
*You’re shaking. Breathe. You’re safe in this car.*
I looked from the screen up to his face. Up close, without the dim restaurant lighting, he was breathtaking—chiseled cheekbones, a straight nose, and dark brown eyes that held a lifetime of suppressed fire. There was a faint, jagged scar tracing from his left temple down behind his ear—a remnant of the explosion that had killed his mother and stolen his hearing.
I lifted my hands, my fingers stiff with cold and adrenaline.
*Who are you?* I signed, my gestures sharp and furious. *Everyone thinks you’re an invalid! Your father treats you like dirt, and you let him! Why are you dragging me into this?*
Caleb’s lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. He took the iPad back and typed with blistering speed.
*Because you’re the first person in fourteen years who looked at me and saw a human being instead of a casualty. And because my father is about to kill us both if we don’t move fast.*
He cleared the screen and typed again:
*Did you bring the drive?*
I reached into my coat and pulled out the small black flash drive, holding it tightly between two fingers.
*What’s on this?* I signed.
Caleb didn’t use the tablet this time. He looked directly into my eyes, raised his hands, and signed with absolute, chilling clarity:
May you like
*Proof that my father didn’t survive the explosion that killed my mother. He arranged it.*
***